Better Not Knowing
by sweetflag
Summary: A witch, snatched from her safe Muggle life, makes the Order evaluate their role.  They consider their past, present and bleak future, leading to desperate decisions and terrible actions. AN:  Deathly Hallows spoilers, also hints of mature situations.
1. Chapter 1

Better Not Knowing.

Author's notes : I would very much like to thank all those who have shown such faith in me; you know who you are! A special thank you to my beta, Falcon Falmorgan, for her continual support, encouragement and perfect grasp of punctuation: thank you.

Disclaimer : I own nothing; JK Rowling is the creator of Harry Potter and associated characters and all that you recognise is hers; everything else is mine.

Prologue.

It was such a simple thing to initiate one of the most complex and demanding of searches and such a small, innocuous, start to a cascade of despair and a tumultuous burgeoning hope. It was for no small reason that he trawled through the broadsheets, eagerly scanning the neat black print whilst sipping tea. Sometimes in the plain black ink, in its strict and orderly columns, a seemingly innocent observation dutifully reported would make his lips thin and his hand tremble.

It was rare that the Muggle world would discover a secret to thrill its Wizarding counterpart, and it fell to those who took the time to peel back the countless layers of gossip, political sniping and celebrity nonsense to find it. In other words, it fell to a person like him.

This secret, the one that would prove to be one of his most thrilling and exhausting, slipped from a tabloid supplement and fluttered innocently onto his lap, so nonchalant in its disclosure. At first, he thought to ignore it as an advert for a charity asking for tolerance and money, but something about it drew his attention from the severe and reliable print. Simultaneously irritated and interested, he picked up the leaflet and read it.

Indeed, it did ask for money to support an initiative to update the image and improve public opinion of the mentally ill, giving examples of academic and artistic achievements of the people it represented. In itself it was quite well presented and compelling, but he could not determine why it held his attention so raptly.

He returned to the taunting pamphlet every so often in hopes that a fresh mind would divine its secret, but each time he only saw the same words and the same pieces of artwork. Just as some of the most beneficial and terrifying discoveries relied upon serendipity, so did Albus Dumbledore. As tragic as the news was, however, it did not seem to reflect anything more sinister than normal belligerence, so he folded the collection of newspapers and cast a spell to reduce the mass of paper to a more manageable size.

The hour was late; his efforts to convince the Ministry of Voldemort's return combined with recalling the Order had drained him. In his fatigue he spilled his tea across the desk. Stifling his frustration, he flicked his wrist; as the spell scoured the surface clean, it disturbed the pamphlet causing the paper to curl around its deeply creased folds.

From his height advantage he saw the two edges come together and the words from the different columns align. He paused and his brow furrowed as he read across from one side to another:

"...it is through their art ….seeing their place in the world….they seek to heal themselves ….and endeavouring to show that they are just like you and me."

A suspicion blossomed; he looked closely at the picture inserted within the text. Rarely did a wizard pass unnoticed; in the last century only twelve had managed to slip through the many charms put in place to find those imbued with magic. He blinked and slowly picked up the pamphlet that so wantonly displayed the secret he failed at first to see.

Small as the picture was, he could make out what appeared to be the towers of any stereotypical fairytale castle. However, when studied closely, they could be those of the very castle he called home. He quickly opened it and searched the other images for something to support his theory, and what he found set his mind thrumming with questions and theories.

In one partially obscured picture he espied the portrait of a young woman. It lacked the finesse of a great artist, but it captured the features accurately and nicely enough. He peered closer. Staring back at him with wide, dark eyes and lips parted expectantly was the face of a girl he thought dead these twenty years. Fascinated, he reread the pamphlet and was gratified to find that the artwork sampled was on display at a research facility dedicated to improving mental health care. Tired of owling a Ministry unwilling to heed him while waiting for Voldemort to make his move, he considered himself ready to tackle a healthy mystery

----X----

Chapter One.

"I was there!"

He towered over the table as his anger surged through him; suppressing the urge to thump his fists on his kitchen table, he lowered himself back onto the seat. The grey bowl, with its swirling, mocking memories, rocked under the impact and Dumbledore idly steadied it.

It irritated Moody that it was placed between them; had the hateful thing cracked, spilling its condemning recollections, he would have demonstrated little remorse. "I was there," he repeated softly, "and despite what that holds there is no possibility that we simply missed her."

He returned to the photograph that Dumbledore procured from an old newspaper and the articles, appealing for help to identify an unknown girl rescued from a train derailment. There was little doubt that the pale girl was Ophelia Black. He thought back on that night and remembered how he had been taken aback by the sheer scale of the damage.

The train overran the terminus, coming off the tracks and smashing through the concrete wall into the station itself. Had it not been night and very nearly closing time, the number of fatalities likely would have quadrupled. As it was, only those disembarking an earlier train were on the platform and heading through the station on their way home.

On his arrival, dust and thick black smoke billowed out from the access points and over the track, hiding the carnage and suffocating the trapped passengers. From inside the station he could hear the roar of a terrific blaze, the screeching of tortured steel and the heavy thuds of falling masonry. In the sparse emergency lighting, the remaining ambulatory milled in shock just beyond the reach of the pluming acrid smoke, whispering and crying. Transport police made urgent calls into their radios whilst trying to move the gathering crowd to a place of safety.

Moody and his team cast a variety of charms upon themselves as a protection against the smoke and heat and Disapparated to an area at the undamaged rear of the train. He saw in the flickering orange lamps that only the last three carriages were on the tracks; the others had either rolled onto their sides or were twisted carcasses from which flames and fumes billowed. The track was littered with shards of glittering glass and smouldering metal and bits of debris better left unidentified.

He motioned for the others to follow and gingerly made his way to the intact carriages. The survivors clambered off the train, trembling and wide-eyed. Those who were in the smoke filled carriages came out swathed in black ash, clutching at their throats and rubbing at their eyes. He quickly assessed the scene for any use of magic; the only signs being in one of the burning carriages — two discrete emissions from wands being incinerated. He and three other Aurors positioned themselves around the devastation at approximate cardinal points and drew complex fiery sigils in the air. The other Aurors cast an equally complex network of spells around the wreckage that, like smoke highlighting beams of light, would determine if the ill-fated train had been the victim of malicious magic. With a final flick of the burning tip, the strange sigils tilted on their horizontal axes and expanded over the wreckage, intermingling with the others.

After a few moments, the mingled sigils rose up and shrank back to their original size. Moody summoned the bizarre flickering sheet of light and studied it. Within the radius was a representation of the train wreck wrought from strands of magic and within that construct were two tremulous spots of light embedded in what would be the twisted mass of metal that had once been the front of the train.

Two Aurors promptly rushed into the chaos to find and extricate the two dying wizards but even as they worked Moody saw the spots of light give one last flicker and then die. The Aurors found the burned bodies fused to various parts of the train, deftly collected them for their families and analysed the wand remains for identification purposes. Upon hearing the sirens of the Muggle emergency services they quickly Disapparated back to the Ministry. He filed his report, suffered with nightmares and eventually relegated the memories to a quiet, dark corner of his mind.

"Alastor, have no doubt that I hold your dedication and abilities in the highest esteem and forgive me if I gave you the impression that I did not," Albus continued with a hint of bridled impatience. "I did not bring this to your attention merely to rub salt in your wounds, but because it is imperative that we find her and you are the only Auror I presently trust who can do just that."

"Of course, Dumbledore," he said dejectedly as he ran a scarred hand through his close cropped silver hair. "The last few weeks have been difficult."

He gave an involuntary shudder as he remembered the enforced lassitude of the Imperius Curse and the consuming blackness of the trunk that imprisoned him for so long.

"As much as I would like to give you time to overcome the horror of the last year, I cannot. Voldemort has returned and I need every able body to join together to fight him."

Moody's head shot up and he fixed Dumbledore with a fierce glare. "I know my duty." The photograph crumpled in his clenched fist and some of the righteous anger that had been doused by his confinement flared within him.

"Glad to hear, old friend," Dumbledore responded cheerfully. "Now let's view my Pensieve, shall we?"

Grumbling, Moody stood and extended his fingers into the mysterious substance that was captured memory. He momentarily felt them like warm silk against his fingertips before his awareness was turned upside down and twisted to rearrange itself into a brightly lit foyer. He saw Albus standing by a desk, obviously being given directions by the middle aged receptionist.

"Her directions, I'm afraid to say, were not terribly helpful," Dumbledore confessed as he appeared beside him. "We will take a few wrong turns before we reach the offices of the Barrat Trust."

"The Barrat Trust?" he queried as they followed Albus.

"Yes, a rather interesting charity devoting itself to promoting awareness about mental illness to the general public in a bid to improve its image. Unfortunately, however noble their venture, I believe their campaign is falling on deaf ears." He gently grabbed Moody's elbow "Just wait here a moment; I have to return this way." They watched as Albus stopped, looked around and then retrace his steps. "The Trust," Dumbledore said as they continued on their way, "was set up sixteen years ago and at the time was instrumental in bringing about reform to help alleviate some of the restrictions placed upon sufferers. Alas, now it has been relegated to a small office in a ramshackle building." Next to him Dumbledore chuckled and Moody's progress was once again halted. "We may as well wait here; I realise momentarily that the dear lady meant left instead of right. They still work tirelessly but their influence is greatly reduced." They, once more, paused and then set off when Albus had recovered from the misdirection; after a few moments Dumbledore's pace slowed. "Ah!" he exclaimed happily. "We've arrived."

They slipped through the door, following Albus into a clean and bright office replete with coffee tables, easy chairs and potted plants. Halogen spotlights dotted the ceiling, dispelling the gloom of the dreary autumn morning and refining the crisp yet friendly atmosphere. It certainly came as a surprise after walking through the dimly lit and neglected corridors. A variety of framed pictures hung from magnolia walls. Some of them looked as though drawn by children; big yellow suns in a blue sky that never connected to the green swathe of crayoned grass. Others were darker both in colour and tone, highlighting the anguish and frustration of the artists. Albus stopped to examine a few before meandering over to a young woman busy tending to a collection of plants in the centre of the room.

"Oh!" She squeaked, pressing a hand against her throat, "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't see you come in."

"Quite alright my dear. I'm sorry to have startled you."

"Think nothing of it." She placed the water spray on a nearby table and pulled off her marigold gloves. "Is there anything that I may help you with?"

Within a few minutes, Albus sat drinking tea and leafing through a thick file containing copies of all the artwork to pass through the office since its opening. Occasionally, the young woman offered a comment or two on particularly memorable ones. Moody and Dumbledore stood behind the chairs and studied the pictures from over their shoulders.

"I dread to think what could have prompted someone to paint such pictures." Albus uttered solemnly as he held up a print of a child's painting; it was red, orange and black, a swirling mass of colour with angry jagged lines and prone black bodies.

"Sometimes the source of a person's distress is reflected in their art. For example, that one was painted by an eight year-old who was the sole survivor of a house fire. She couldn't remember the incident but drew those pictures for weeks afterwards, always denying that she had when questioned. Eventually, though, she began to accept what had happened." She sorted through the file somewhere near the back and flipped a section over. "After several months of counselling, she drew this." The colours were softer pastels and although the prone bodies were still black they were surrounded by large colourful flowers and given smiling faces.

"Wonderful." He was aware of the wondrous ability of many children to accept and overcome tragedy, letting the trauma sit lightly within their hearts and minds colouring rather than shadowing their futures. He had returned to the sombre images near the front and methodically studied each image. His companion had soon left him to return to the plants and paperwork. Moody and Dumbledore took seats to either side and they pored over the images.

Albus obligingly lingered over the more interesting images and pointed out the features that confirmed a wizard had drawn the elegant and accurate sketches. There were several of the castle and its grounds, the great hall eerily empty and darkened by a stormy ceiling. There were two of the potions classroom with flames flickering under steaming cauldrons and various ingredients neatly grouped on the tables. A beautiful rendition of the castle and lake with a fat moon rising behind the towers done in chalk on black paper took their breath away.

There were darker images, as well, including that of a group of hooded wizards and a large snake with fat coils and a sleepy intelligent look. It was the last picture; one that Albus took more time to consider, that caused Moody to react. With a hiss of indrawn breath and a fierce glower he saw a basilisk rearing from the gaping mouth of a bearded face hewn from pale stone. The two interlopers in the memory shared a dark look and Dumbledore raised his hand to delay Moody's disquiet. Albus sifted through the file taking down the serial numbers of each print before placing the file on the table. Moody and Dumbledore followed him to the reception desk and listened in.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you who drew those pictures, sir." Nothing about her tone suggested contrition suggesting her refusal rather than ignorance.

"Ah, in that case, perhaps this will ease matters."

Moody watched with professional curiosity as Albus pulled out a piece of card from his pocket. While he handed it to the woman with his left hand, he waved his right as a conductor might. Moody glanced at the receptionist, seeing her eyes glaze over and her features gradually relax until she reached for the small card and studied it carefully.

"Oh," she sighed softly. "Of course, sir. Forgive me, but we were given strict instructions not to release any personal information to the general public." Her face clouded for a moment as she fought the spell before succumbing to its effects and smiling apologetically at him. "The information is probably still on the computer; it shouldn't take too long to retrieve it."

"That should do it, Alastor." Dumbledore whispered into his ear.

With that, the memory world turned grey and Moody felt the spinning sensation as he was ejected from the Pensieve. They both sat and stared at the pearlescent liquid in the stone basin as they pondered what it revealed.

"Could she have entered the Chamber while at school?"

Dumbledore frowned and clasped one hand within the other as if to fend off the cold. "Had Miss Weasley not been controlled and coerced by Voldemort to enter the Chamber, I would have said no without reservation."

His frown deepened and he ran a hand over his beard. "It was not brought to my attention that Ophelia was a Parselmouth and therefore able to open the chamber. Even if she had, Harry was quite sure that the Basilisk answered only to young Tom. No, it is my guess that she encountered the image somewhere else." As he spoke he reached out and traced a fingertip around the rim of the Pensieve. "Tom was always proud; he kept trinkets to remind him, and more importantly others, of his conquests. Later when he realised that to hold such incriminating things was less than clever he stored his memories to serve the same purpose: memories that he could leaf through when the mood took him and to show others when the need arose."

"We know that Lucius Malfoy had Riddle's diary," continued Moody in the same thoughtful voice, "and we know that Ophelia stayed at the Malfoy's." He glanced up at Dumbledore who watched him with a suppressed grin and glittering eyes. "Yer think she got hold of the diary?"

Dumbledore nodded and chuckled. "She would have had ample opportunity to find it and I believe that she would have immersed herself in it."

Moody smiled— not pleasantly, but with a renewed sense of purpose. The weight that had descended upon him following his laughable capture and pathetic imprisonment lifted; perhaps he saw a way to redeem himself or more likely revenge himself.

"We find Ophelia, we find what she knows."

"Precisely."

"What did yer find out from the office receptionist?"

"A remarkably efficient and determined young lady, she even tried to locate Ophelia for me. Unfortunately the trail, as they say, grew cold after she left an institution in Cumbria."

He pulled out a buff envelope from the breast pocket of his mauve velvet jacket and slid it across the table to the eager ex-Auror. While he read, Dumbledore flourished his wand to prepare fresh tea and scooped the memories from the Pensieve back up to his temple.

"What's this? A news clippin', 'Police confirmed today that a young girl sufferin' with serious injuries followin' Tuesday's derailment still remains a mystery. The teenager surprised rescuers amid fears that all sixteen passengers travellin' in the first two carriages perished. She is currently being cared for by the medical staff at St. Thomas' hospital who say, that in time, a full recovery is possible.' "

Dumbledore serenely sipped his tea and motioned for him to continue reading the collection of news clippings, police and hospital reports, along with the notes regarding her stay at Edmont Institute. They detailed a mental deterioration following placement at a care home and repeated hospitalisations following injuries to herself and detentions following injuries to others. Then, there was a brief stint in a psychiatric hospital following a series of violent attacks on her peers. Finally, she was sent to Edmont Institute in Cumbria. Recovery was not expected, and eventually the world forgot about her.

However, years later she was, remarkably, pronounced healthy and released on probation into the custody of a local outpatient department. She diligently followed their recommendations and requirements until they were satisfied of her coping abilities, and then she just disappeared.

After half an hour of reading and cross-referencing, Moody sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't really give us much does it? Young girl with no memory and no ties to anyone let loose to go where she chooses whenever she chooses. She could be anywhere!"

"I know!" Albus exclaimed gleefully.

Moody glared at him, unable for a moment to express his feelings over the sheer enormity of the task that Dumbledore just dropped in his lap. "You can't just wave yer wand and hope yer know!" He growled out angrily.

"I'm well aware of that, Alastor, and as such I and the Order will be at your disposal." His jovial mood gone as quickly as it had come, Dumbledore drained his tea and stood to tower over the simmering Auror. "Do what you can I'm certain that I don't need to impress upon you how little time we have."

Moody nodded grimly. "I have a Muggle acquaintance who can help."

Dumbledore paused and arched a white eyebrow questioningly.

"She's lost in the Muggle world, so who best to help find her?"

"Quite so. Keep me up to date and good luck." With that, he packed away his Pensieve and Disapparated.


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment Sirius was taken aback at the headmaster's attire – he had never seen him wearing anything other than rich and voluminous robes. He gaped at the sight of the brown jacket over a knitted grey turtleneck jumper and charcoal trousers with a cream fedora balanced on his cascade of silver hair. He stood in the doorway for a few moments and then shuffled awkwardly aside, at which silent invitation the headmaster strode in to reveal a sobering sight: Severus Snape, scowling up at him.

The man's black hair hung in limp curtains plunging his face into shadows, the weak autumn light only succeeded in catching his hooked nose and the swell of his cheekbones. He was wearing his habitual black three-quarter length jacket and trousers which would easily pass muster in eclectic London should any Muggle see him, and he carried what looked like an old fashioned doctor's bag in black leather. It struck Sirius as strange that Snape should find such a compromise between Wizarding and Muggle fashion while endeavouring, through reputation and design, to isolate himself from both worlds. Snape quickly followed Dumbledore and swept past Sirius with barely a glance or acknowledgment.

Snape and Dumbledore were already seated when he strode into the kitchen and he felt a rising frustration and anger as he played host preparing tea. He could feel Snape's smirk burning the back of his neck.

"There has arisen a matter of some urgency of which, I believe, you both have some vital information," Dumbledore divulged after taking an unhurried sip of lemon tea. "I believe that both of you, at one time or another knew Ophelia Black."

Sirius had been glaring at Snape and so caught the slight unexpected flinch as Dumbledore mentioned a name that had good cause to make his own breath catch in his throat and his insides squirm.

"Evidence has recently come to light indicating that she survived the train wreck and has since forged a life for herself in the Muggle world."

"How is that possible?" Snape seemed more cautious than curious and Sirius was distressed to find that his own curiosity about Ophelia's miraculous resurrection was outweighed by his increasing desire to know exactly how Snape and Ophelia knew each other.

"We are not sure of the exact details but we believe that she was taken to a local Muggle hospital before the Aurors arrived. Until we find her I doubt we will ever know the complete truth."

"The complete truth?" Snape queried softly, his attention know riveted to the headmaster.

"There exists some confusion as to how she was slipped past the Aurors into the hospital, and why she has refrained from making her way back to the Wizarding world. Suffice to say that we suspect she was removed from the train prior to the accident and later the victim of a memory modifying curse."

"Who did it? Death Eaters?"

Snape turned to glare at Sirius. "Contrary to popular opinion the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters were not the sole instigators of terror and violence. I take it that you have forgotten the powers bestowed upon the Elite Aurors formed under Barty Crouch's administration? They had the right to bring anyone in for questioning at any time, without the benefit of counsel. They were also granted the right to kill any suspected Death Eaters on sight."

Sirius glowered back, partly due to Snape's infuriating condescension and partly to the memory of Barty Crouch Sr.'s quivering face condemning him to life in Azkaban.

"I, better than most, should be aware of how dire it was."

To his surprise Snape tilted his head in the smallest gesture of acknowledgement.

"I would appreciate," Dumbledore interjected smoothly, "your thoughts on how easily Ophelia may be assimilated back into the Wizarding world."

"You've found her?" Sirius felt a thrum down his spine and a fluttering in his gut; a godson and a cousin restored to him … perhaps life was not so bleak after all.

"Alastor has contacted an acquaintance who will, he believes, be able to lead us to her quite quickly."

"And you want to know of her loyalties before approaching her?"

"Now listen here, Snape," Sirius growled, offended at the suggestive tone in Snape's voice. "I knew her well and she never showed any inclination to follow in the footsteps of the rest of that family."

Snape merely sneered and waved a thin hand dismissively. "I tend to agree with you that she certainly seemed to avoid the traps that ensnared her family, but have no doubt that she was eager to be a part of that family."

"No," he whispered hoarsely, "she never shared their philosophies; for Merlin's sake, she was practically a Muggle when she was found!"

"As I understand, your contact was severely curtailed when she was invited to live at Malfoy Manor where she had ample opportunity to embrace certain principles without your unique moral compass to guide her. And if you believe that exposure to Muggles would somehow make her immune then I suggest that you think back on your friend, Pettigrew – he is a Half blood is he not?"

Sirius flushed and gripped the edge of the table. He was tempted to pull his wand but was painfully aware of the headmaster listening and watching intently. He forced down the fury at the impugnation of his moral character and the hate at the casual mentioning of his regretful association with Pettigrew. "How do I know that those certain principles were not inspired by befuddlements or potions?"

Snape bit out a harsh laugh and shook his head indulgently. "I assure you that she needed nothing more than space, her natural predispositions soon manifested themselves."

"And how, exactly, would you," he sneered in partially concealed disgust and disbelief, "be in such a position to determine her predispositions?" His heart hammered in his chest, his mind had skirted around his suspicion since it bloomed and he dreaded confirmation. Ophelia had been sixteen when she supposedly died, Snape would have been twenty-two. He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat and kept a hold on the table lest he drew his wand and hexed the gloating man in front of him.

"While she was Lucius' ward I had ample opportunities to meet with Ophelia."

"Ah yes!" Sirius sighed, "I forgot that you were on Malfoy's leash as well as Voldemort's."

"Do not," Snape ground out through clenched teeth, "speak his name!" His face was flushed, his eyes glittered, and the fingers on his right hand traced a pattern over the fabric covering his left, inner forearm. Sirius found his gaze oddly drawn to those pale slender fingers moving over the black cloth, and he fancied that those fingers soothed the writhing Dark Mark beneath.

"Don't be melodramatic Snape;" he said lazily, "it's just a brand, a mark of ownership." Sirius' tone was light, but his expression was vicious.

"This," snarled Snape lifting his arm and stabbing a finger into the black cloth and the corrupted flesh beneath, "is more than that, Black, as you very well know: Azkaban must have robbed you of your wits!"

Sirius blinked, his anger smothered by the disquieting and recurrent fear that the Dementors had indeed stolen more than he thought. He cast a nonplussed glance at Dumbledore, who watched Snape closely.

"Headmaster?" he asked, hoping to affect an air of annoyance rather than display his need for reassurance.

Dumbledore turned, peering at him over the rim of his gold spectacles, concern crinkling his brow. "The Dark Mark is a link between each Death Eater and the Dark Lord: the mechanism of this is not clearly understood and although we have endeavoured to discover its secrets we have as of yet failed. From Severus' information regarding its creation and the lingering side effects we believe that Riddle is aware, on some level, of the emotional state of any Death Eater he focuses on, and this is what makes him a formidable Legilimens to those within his ranks. As with Legilimency distance decreases this effect; however, a surge of power from the Mark, on hearing its creator's name for example, can overcome that obstacle and it is possible that for an instant Riddle may sense the emotions of one bearing the Mark."

"So Vol- , erm, _He_ can basically spy upon his own through the Mark?" His brow furrowed further and as he considered the ramifications he pinned Snape with a fierce gaze and pointed at him. "What's stopping him," he said vehemently, "from inadvertently passing on something to _Him_ via this link?"

"Severus," Dumbledore spoke quickly to override Snape, who merely glowered at the headmaster, "is an accomplished Occlumens, and as you are aware everything discussed here is protected by the Fidelus Charm. I doubt that there is, in this instance, any cause for concern but it is something that you should be made aware of."

Sirius nodded slowly and felt a wave of nausea rush through him. Did Voldemort unconsciously employ the same mechanism when he foisted his emotions and thoughts onto Harry? He shuddered at the horrible implications.

"Now," Dumbledore stated firmly, "back to the matter at hand. Severus, you were suggesting that Ophelia's loyalties may lie closer to her family."

"Yes," he replied ignoring Sirius' huff of denial. "She was particularly close to Narcissa and spoke quite fondly of Madam Tonks with whom she lived before the train accident."

Sirius closed his mouth with a snap and jerked forward in his chair. "You stayed in contact with Ophelia after she left Malfoy's?" It was impossible! He had visited Ophelia at his Cousin Andromeda's house at every opportunity and never had she mentioned that she was in correspondence with Snape. She had never even hinted that she knew of the man's existence.

"Indeed," Snape smirked, obviously enjoying the hurt flashing across Sirius' face. "Did she never tell you?"

Sirius eased back with an air of nonchalance that he did not feel: the knowledge that Ophelia and Snape had shared something generated a surprising spark of jealousy, and the fact that she kept it a secret only increased the hurt. The fact that Snape knew added a subtle element of humiliation to the confusing coagulation of emotions clogging his chest.

"Severus," Dumbledore chided quietly, "if you would kindly continue." He knew from past experience that Severus Snape would hold onto his secrets far more tightly if he felt they were being prised from him but would divulge them readily enough if he thought they had the power to hurt. To be fair though, Sirius was no altruist either when it came to releasing information; if he did not think it relevant then it would stay locked in some dusty recess, irrespective of how useful it could have been. Sirius would, however, scrounge up those distant and neglected memories quickly enough if he felt in some way threatened. He was learning more from drinking his tea and listening to the verbal barrage between them than if he sat them down individually and simply asked. He smirked to himself behind his teacup: pride was a terrible thing.

"Ophelia, as you both know, lived with Lucius and Narcissa until shortly after they were married whereupon she was sent to live with Andromeda."

"Why would they not ask Bellatrix to take up her guardianship?"

"As I understand it, Headmaster," Snape replied, seemingly incredulous at the notion that they were not already aware of the reason. "Ophelia and Bella were not content in each other's company, so much so that sending her to live with Madam Tonks was the far more rational, if not disappointing, decision."

"She seemed happy enough at Andromeda's, and I never saw her or heard her do anything that suggested that she was disappointed or discontent with the arrangement."

"Nor did I suggest any." Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sirius gritted his teeth at the gesture of patient tolerance being tested and began to hope that Dumbledore would depart suddenly, leaving Snape stranded. A few moments were all he needed.

"Ophelia enjoyed living with Andromeda and even told me of her great fondness for her cousin and her Muggle husband. Other family members were disappointed with the decision."

Sirius felt that he had missed some part of the conversation; surely Snape had said that Ophelia had been steadily conforming to those twisted principles and philosophies that had so appalled him as a youth. A cold sliver of realisation pierced the smog of resentment and jealousy. Snape never said such a thing; he had merely allowed Sirius to come to the conclusion that he had formed as soon as Snape said she was close to her family. Sirius cursed inwardly and glared at the source of his sudden embarrassment. Hadn't he at one time been close to his family? Hadn't Regulus and Andromeda?

"Do we know why they were so incompatible?"

Snape grimaced slightly and reared back as if the question pained him. Intrigued, Sirius forced down his frustrations and focused on the suddenly uncomfortable man practically squirming in his chair.

"Bella considered Ophelia a threat," Snape finally muttered after an uncomfortable pause.

"A threat?"

Sirius was surprised that Snape allowed his inane comment to pass until he saw the man's jaw clench and a vein pulsate in his temple.

"At the time, the Ministry saw the Dark Lord as nothing more than a political dissident. Rumours about his activities either repulsed or attracted but none of them encouraged any direct action against him. It was therefore quite common for the Dark Lord to be entertained in many of the great houses, and such a house was Malfoy Manor."

Sirius noticed that although Snape appeared calm, he was scratching at the Dark Mark, apparently oblivious of his actions. "We already know that, Snape. I was asked to speak with Ophelia about the soirees that Malfoy hosted. Remember?"

Snape shot him a look, and Sirius felt the hairs on his nape prickle at the emptiness of it; he had seen such a deadened look in the eyes of the inmates of Azkaban, and more often than he cared in his own. "That may be so, but I'm sure that she refrained from divulging certain interesting snippets." He brought a hand to his mouth and gently rubbed his forefinger across his lips.

"I didn't question her regarding the latest gossip."

"Don't be naïve," Snape snarled, the passion back in his eyes. "More often than not it is the subtle unconscious acts that yield the most important information."

"I did not have the time to have her comment on who was wearing what and who was draped over who. I was after names and information about impending attacks."

"Foolish," Snape muttered from behind his fingers, "you compounded her belief that it was a mere triviality. She, herself, would not have seen the importance of it. But you," his voice empty and quiet, "you would have discovered the greatest secret and weapon against _him_. Had you but asked."

"Sometimes she wouldn't talk to me, you know," he roared, "but she wasn't there anymore, she was with Andromeda, so what did it matter? The Order had no further use for her."

Dumbledore took another sip of tea and carefully slid out his wand. He was quite convinced that they had temporarily forgotten about him and he did not want the discussion to deteriorate into violence due to a perceived lack of authority. In the meantime he sat back and waited for the rising torrents to stir up the answers he sought.

"You amaze me, Black." Snape placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. "In the palm of your hand you had a direct route to the Dark Lord," his voice wavered and cracked, "and you squandered it because you were bored by high society politics."

Sirius threw up his hands and moaned out in frustration. "I have absolutely no idea what the hell you're blathering on about. She was just a child for Merlin's sake. She spent the first years just being amazed by the fact she was a witch. She didn't know, couldn't begin to fathom what being in that family meant. She was gentle and sweet and nothing like them." He turned to Dumbledore and spread his arms wide. "Don't listen to him," he implored, "Ophelia was nothing like them, granted," he conceded, "she may not join us, but I'm damned sure she won't join them."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Black."

"Look Snape," he hissed, "I'm really getting sick of this. Just what makes you so cocksure that Ophelia would? Some chance meetings at Malfoy Manor? Perhaps a few letters from Andromeda's?"

He watched the colour drain from Snape's face and glancing down he saw Snape's potion-stained fingernails bite into the veneer on the kitchen table.

"Come on Snape," he urged, "how exactly did I mess up? Because I can't help but think that you're supposed to be on our side, and surely if there was something that important then you would have just told us."

"Her death nullified the dilemma."

"You wanted her dead."

"No!" Snape shouted, colouring violently and smacking the tabletop. He breathed slowly and noisily until his face and breathing returned to normal. "Suffice it to say that should she return and her loyalties remain where I think they have always been then she will be a threat to the Order."

"Your opinion, Snape."

"Black," Snape whispered softly, once again pinching the bridge of his nose and inhaling slowly, "I once came across Ophelia on the terrace at Malfoy manor trying to convince Nagini to devour Wormtail while he was trapped in his animagus form." He glared up when a snigger escaped from Sirius' clenched lips and then shrugged generously: it _had_ been amusing. "It appears that I must thank you by the way," he smirked suddenly, "she was so intrigued by the one who had fuelled your hatred through school and occupied much of your conversations together that she was positively thrilled to finally meet me."

"Get to the point," Sirius said tonelessly.

Snape's smirk slipped and that deadened look that had chilled Sirius returned. "She was fascinated by you, I think."

Sirius wondered if the chilly tone concealed a hint of jealousy.

"She sought out those who had affected you the most deeply. Her familial acquaintance with Regulus deepened and the two became inseparable. The Dark Lord even humoured her fondness for her cousin and asked it of Lucius to open up his home to him; no other Death Eater was treated so kindly."

Sirius' throat tightened and a knot twisted in his gut. "She never mentioned any of this."

"As you may know," Snape continued smoothly ignoring Sirius' comment and the man's growing trepidation, "Regulus disappeared on the eve of his first anniversary. It wasn't made known, but Regulus' body was recovered by Evans and brought before the Dark Lord. He spouted nonsense of a vicious duel but in all probability waited until his target was asleep and cast the Killing Curse without much fuss. Ophelia was notably absent during that time and ..."

Sirius started and lunged across the table as if to grab Snape, his face twisted into an ugly, fierce scowl, and his trembling fists upraised and tightly clenched. "Think carefully about what you're planning to say."

"It was rumoured that Ophelia had somehow discovered Regulus' hideout and divulged the location to the Dark Lord himself." He ignored Sirius, who spluttered with rage, and turned to face Dumbledore. He flicked his tongue over dry lips and settled back in the chair, allowing his greasy hair to curtain his eyes. "At first I was inclined to think as you do, Black, that the idea was ludicrous, but" he paused and in the sudden silence Sirius could hear the man's erratic breaths, "not after seeing what she did to his body."

Sirius barely heard Snape's whispered recollection through the thunderous roar of blood rushing past his ears, and it was more the defensive hunch of his shoulders than the words that prompted him to slowly draw back and cool his temper. He slumped back into his chair and ran a quivering hand over his face. He had struggled to escape Azkaban to a life that was comfortable and secure and it was crumbling around his ears, it was as if his memory had been a fancy and the reality was hell.

"She immolated it until even the ash had been destroyed. I had never seen her so violent and passionate: even Bella seemed cowed by her display. It seems quite plausible that Ophelia only ever had the Dark Lord's interests at heart; it earned her the fear and respect of the others and secured her as the most favoured and adored of the Dark Lord. So impressed with her skill and devotion the Dark Lord offered her any reward she wished: she ordered that Regulus' name no longer be mentioned amongst the ranks."

"Why?" Sirius croaked. The thought ricocheted inside his skull, cracking the thin veneer of contentment that he had crafted to hide how he split and bled inside. His cousin, the child he had loved as a sister, had been culpable in his brother's murder and even rejoiced in it.

"Because she could!" Snape snapped out. He raked his fingers through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. "Because she wanted to," he said wearily allowing his hand to fall into his lap. "The Dark Lord called her _Opella. _For some reason he was taken with her, a scrawny eight-year-old who was more Muggle than witch. Did you ever wonder why Lucius was so amenable to having the brat stay at his house while he wooed his soon-to-be wife? Ophelia was the must have item for the ambitious Death Eater: she had the ear of the Dark Lord himself and all those she loved were favoured."

Sirius placed his head in his hands and stifled the sob trying to erupt from his throat. His despair doubling and his thoughts scattering as the image of Ophelia and Voldemort together blasted through his mind.

"Did she take the Mark?" he asked fearfully and desperately from behind his fingers.

"If she did, then only she and the Dark Lord ever knew of it."

"But," Sirius wailed, clenching his fists and banging them against his thighs, "she told me things that would help destroy him." He turned to Dumbledore, almost reaching out to him. "The information I passed on was helpful."

"As you said, she was a child. I doubt that she thought anything remarkable about her association with the Dark Lord." Snape frowned and then scowled. "When did she stop talking to you?"

"What?" He responded angrily taken aback by the harshness and eagerness of Snape's inquiry.

"You said earlier that she sometimes wouldn't speak with you. When did her silences start?

"I don't know!" He huffed, but part of him was frantically searching for the answer. "I guess they started just before she moved to Andromeda's."

"You guess?" Snape sneered, his lip curling up in barely disguised disgust, "think hard, Black!"

He ignored Snape and forced himself to relax. He followed a trail of memories back to the early days when he had first met Ophelia: the outrage at the apparent ease of the assignment and the disgust at using the little girl. Her joyous smile as they performed simple and secret magic and the whoops of delight as she rode on his back, clutching at his fur and kicking his sides, urging him on.

"She was eight when she moved to the Malfoy's, and I know that she moved in with Andromeda just before the start of her fifth year." He desperately sought a reference, a clue to pinpoint her change of behaviour. Why hadn't he noticed at the time? Had something happened to overshadow the change in relationship? Then a memory surfaced like the flick of a shark's fin, inspiring dread and desperation as he battled to stay afloat in the churning waters of his mind. He pursued the elusive memory, diving deeper into the murky depths of his Dementor affected mind until the memory coalesced into breathtaking clarity.

---X---

She had been at this house, his home until he could no longer stomach the vitriol spewing from his mother's mouth. He had seen her step into the street, dressed in black and carrying a small bouquet of purple flowers. Her cheeks had glistened in the mid-afternoon sun and her red rimmed eyes stared into the distance. No one else had mourned; they had paid their respects to his mother and father and left without sparing a thought to the young wizard whose body lay somewhere untended and unclaimed. He had wondered why she wept: had her tears fallen for Regulus, or had she shared the burden of shame weighing down on her aunt and uncle. He watched the breeze lift stray tendrils of rich chestnut hair and he was struck at how different she was: gone were the clumsiness and the fussiness of youth. There stood a young woman with quiet grace and mature composure.

He had given a small whine and her gaze focused on him sitting in a gap between the laurel hedges surrounding a private garden for the square. Content that she was moving towards him he shuffled back and into the copse that had sheltered him from time to time when as a child he had needed space. He transformed back into a man, stretched out the kinks his back as best he could beneath the low branches and settled himself on the cool ground between the roots of a sycamore. He heard the soft crunch of dry grass and the brush of fabric, and then she moved to sit before him on a patch of yellow, sun starved grass. He noticed her fingers idly plucking at a bouquet of violets held in a bruising grip.

"I'm surprised you came." Her voice conveyed no such sentiment, in fact she seemed uncomfortable.

"To be honest so am I." He watched the torn petals flutter on her lap and he felt the skin prickle on the nape of his neck. "Why are you here?" He himself had been asked by Dumbledore to watch the house and had reluctantly agreed only to see her unexpected face amongst those supporting his mother.

Her fingers paused in their quiet destruction.

"I came with Narcissa; she's still in the house comforting your mother." Was there a hint of admonishment in her voice at his absence, or a stray cadence indicating her frustration at her own presence? She turned her face towards the house hidden behind the bushes and he was just able to catch a glimpse of anger flit across her pale features. Her fingers dug cruelly into the flowers and she ripped several blossoms free, carelessly scattering them across her lap.

"I take it that congratulations are in order." She looked back at him sharply, almost fearfully. "I saw the announcement in the _Daily Prophet_ that Malfoy had proposed."

She relaxed and gently, consolingly, caressed the remains of the bouquet. "Narcissa certainly seems happy enough with the arrangement."

He recognised the subtle undertones in her voice. On occasion he had engendered it in the voice of women, and tried not to think that she was jealous of Narcissa. He moistened his dry lips and moved forward to gently, reassuringly, squeeze her shoulder, but his hand unthinkingly moved to graze her cheek. Her eyes, moist and unfathomably dark in the shadowed spinney, flickered in surprise and held his gaze. He suddenly felt uncomfortable at the unfamiliar connection and eased himself back until he felt the tree's solid girth behind him. "Will you still be able to stay at Malfoy's after the wedding?"

He sighed in relief when she rolled her eyes, such an innocent childish gesture that it swamped his rising dread that he had unwittingly crossed some hitherto unseen and unnecessary line.

"Malfoy Manor, according to Lucius," she added so irreverently that Sirius chuckled, "is large enough that we could live side by side for years without actually ever meeting."

"So you're okay with them?"

He watched her turn to stone as the humour drained from her, smooth, hard and impervious. "Lucius is a perfect match for Narcissa." Her face clouded and she ran her fingers through the brittle grass. "Besides, I doubt that Lucius will ever ask me to leave." The subtle stress on the name distracted him from her actual words and he was left wondering if her flare of jealousy was in fact directed towards Lucius for sequestering Narcissa's time and affections. "I'll be fine; it's not as if I didn't know that they were getting married."

A heavy silence settled and an underlying tension had stifled conversation. "It must be pretty dire in there?" Sirius remembered asking lamely in an attempt to prolong her presence and to draw out what was disturbing her.

"I heard your mother talking to Narcissa, she doesn't want a service for Regulus and she's removed his name from the family tree, there's just a … a ... blackened and charred hole in the fabric." Her voice cracked and her shoulders trembled. He saw her screw up her face and bite down hard on her lower lip, and he once more reached out to her, pulling her into a strong embrace. Her hands moved around him and he felt her fingers dig into the skin on his back while she buried her face in his chest, just as she had when she was a little girl. He had been unsure how to comfort her, being uncomfortable with weeping women himself, and so had resorted to the tried and trusted method of gently rocking and rubbing her back. He had felt dismayed to feel how thin she'd become even as she gripped him with a fierce strength. He had listened to her stifled mewling sounds and suffered her fingers digging into his back painfully. He crooned softly and whispered in her ear all the nonsense things that he'd heard others say in similar situations while she had taken deep shuddering breaths. His feet had gone numb from how he was kneeling and her hip had dug into his thigh, but nothing could have compelled him to release his hold on her. His own breathing had accelerated, a sudden cold sweat chilled him and listening to her distress had almost overwhelmed him. It had taken him a moment to realise that she was muttering something against his chest and eventually, between the keening sounds and the erratic breaths, he had caught his brother's name.

"He was unfaithful, a disgrace," he had said gently. She had stiffened and then slowly eased herself away, her face flushed, glistening and dappled by golden sunlight filtering through the leaves.

"Mother will never forgive him, Ophelia. He will never deserve it."

He recalled how she had flinched and fear had slid down his spine to coil in his belly; how tainted was she? Was this display brought on by Regulus' death or the realisation of the fate awaiting anyone unfaithful? He had mentally cursed Dumbledore for allowing this situation to continue, to have kept an innocent in such filth for scraps of information. Her eyes, bloodshot and swollen, had focused on him with such intensity that he shivered.

"Aunty says that you are unfaithful," she had whispered. "Perhaps you are more like Regulus than you think?"

Releasing her and resting back on his heels he had allowed the anger to break through the dismay and despair that her outpouring had evoked. "Regulus and I are nothing alike. If you knew him then you'd see the difference; don't compare us on a few comments raised by her." The vehemence in his voice had made her blanch and recoil. "Look, Regulus made a mistake and he died because of it. If he had come to me I could have helped him." He remembered how he had felt panic and dread swirl unpleasantly in his gut as he tried to convince her that he could protect her. He had pulled her into his arms not noticing at the time that her arms had stayed stiffly at her sides. "If someone ever tries to push you into doing something that you don't want, then please come to me. I can protect you. Do you understand, Ophelia? You don't have to get burned like he did." He had willed her to understand; tried to convey his unspoken offer through tone of voice and fierce grip; he had thrummed with the silent plea that she would just know. Gently pushing her away and scrutinising her face he had hoped to see some spark of comprehension, but her expression had been frantic.

She pulled herself free and stared at him with fearful eyes and slightly parted lips, the lower lip swollen and bloodied. Now that he viewed the memory dispassionately he noticed her right hand slip into the folds of her robes and with a thrill of horror realised that while he had comforted her she had armed herself.

"Regulus," she had whispered harshly, "didn't make any mistakes, that's why he died."

He had misinterpreted her, believing her to advocate Regulus' decision to join Voldemort and his rising panic had clouded his thinking. He could not bear the thought of another slipping into the quagmire that had suffocated his brother who he had once loved. In his desperation he had lunged for her but she had scurried backwards, the laurel leaves fanning out as she pushed into the hedge. His heart had leapt into his throat; he did not want to be the one who pushed her into their arms just as mother had pushed his brother. Swallowed rapidly and backing away, shocked at how easily he had lost control, he recalled trying to ease her alarm and fear. Ophelia, however, had remained crouched against the bush, staring at him aghast at his actions and panting slightly.

"I'm sorry. I guess that his murder bothered me more than I thought."

She had nodded slowly and eased away from the hedge, but he knew that she was far from content. He had tried to lighten the mood and had chuckled at the sight of leaves in her hair.

"I have to get back to Narcissa," she had said while pulling small twigs from her hair.

He took one of her hands as she moved away and had been disheartened to see her grimace at the contact. "When can I see you again?"

She turned to him but had kept her eyes locked on the tree behind him. "I don't know. Everything is a little confused at the moment; Regulus' death seems to have hit a lot of people hard."

"Do they know how he died?"

He had been chilled by the vicious smile curving her lips, and now he wondered if Snape's suspicions regarding her involvement in Regulus' death were valid.

"No," she looked up at him, all malicious humour gone, and smiled sadly, "people will ask themselves that for years, thinking that it is the most important question."

"Well," he had demanded, annoyed at her flippant observation, "in your opinion what is the most important question?"

She cocked her head to the side and her smile had been indulgent. She leaned towards him until she could whisper in his ear. The sensation of warm breath across his cheek and neck had sent a tingling wave rolling across his skin. "The most important question, dear Padfoot, is why did he choose to die?"

Her face was flushed and her eyes had glittered disturbingly as he gripped her shoulders and pushed her back. He had smiled sympathetically and shook his head in confusion. "Ophelia," he had explained gently and slowly, "Regulus wanted something that he couldn't have and he was killed because of it."

"He wasn't killed," she responded shrilly, her mouth twisting into a furious scowl.

"He chose to die and do you know what the worst of it all is?" He shook his head, confusion, anger and trepidation running rampant. "The worst thing is that his part in it will never be known. His hand in it will go unrewarded and unacknowledged and all the time people like you will consider themselves to be the heroes."

His temper had flared and he remembered gripping her shoulders with bruising force. "He was no hero, Ophelia, he was a Death Eater!" He could feel an echo of the anger and desperation that had seized him as he sat in his kitchen remembering something that he couldn't have forgotten. "Regulus was an impressionable fool! He was shown his destiny and didn't have the brains or guts to change it. He chose his path and got what he deserved."

"You left him there!" she had hissed out through clenched teeth, "perhaps if you hadn't been so self-obsessed then you would have protected him better instead of leaving him to the wolves." She inverted the tattered flowers and shoved the bouquet forcefully into his chest her face twisted with anger and disgust.

"What?" He snapped, reflexively grabbing the bouquet and relinquishing his hold on her. "You never even knew him!"

Her face had paled dramatically and her eyes widened in fear. Sirius had an idea what would happen soon. The fact that up until this moment he had no recollection of any such meeting in the hedges allowed him to come to a disturbing conclusion. He had remembered watching the house for several hours but recalled that he had gained nothing to show for it but a few muscle pains and a headache, not even the petals fluttering in the dirt. In the memory, Sirius, watched in disbelief as she deftly pulled out her wand and aimed it between his eyes. Behind the glowing and unwavering tip he saw tears running down her pale face and her lips quivering with despair.

"I'm sorry."

He had moved to stop her but her whispered spell struck him in the throat.

---X---

"She Obliviated me!"

At Dumbledore's insistence he recounted his memory to them, too shocked at the discovery to care that Snape was gloating or that the headmaster looked agitated. He hinted at the distress she was concealing, whether it was caused by her cousin's impending marriage or the apparent sense of betrayal overshadowing Regulus' murder. With a lead weight in his stomach and a hitch in his voice he mentioned her careless reference to Regulus and her terror upon realising it. He kept his gaze fixed on Dumbledore's lower lip; he could not bring himself to look at Snape's face. No matter how he looked at the memory the condemning fact remained that she had known Regulus and knew something of his death, which was more than anyone else. He could not bring himself to truly believe that she had been directly responsible for his brother's death but the doubt instilled by his own recollection and Snape's observations allowed him to concede that she may have had a hand in it after all. But those flowers still haunted him – those differing shades of velvety blue with their yellow tinged hearts, held in a white knuckled grip and torn apart by frantic fingers.

Dumbledore frowned. Whatever answers he had hoped to uncover he had not expected anything quite so damning. He had hoped that Ophelia had begun to walk her own path away from the darkness that had consumed the majority of her family, but the two wizards confirmed his worst suspicion. He had no choice but to find her, he could not risk leaving her in the Muggle world, it was not unheard of for someone to spontaneously recover from memory modification curses, or could he guarantee that she would remain undiscovered. He had hoped that she would join them willingly but either way he would use the invaluable information that he believed lay in the depths of her damaged mind. He glanced over at Snape, who had his habitual scowl in place but seemed to be directing it at some inner turmoil. No doubt he was re-evaluating his relationship with the young girl. A shiver ran down his spine at the implications of her apparent devout loyalty to Voldemort for his spy, the ramifications would far outweigh any familial disillusionment on Sirius' behalf.

"Severus, how does this affect you?"

Snape rested his forearms on the table and clasped his hands together. "I see no reason that she should endanger my role. Our meetings were quite amicable, and it is possible that her influence, should it remain in effect, would in fact be beneficial." Despite the optimism his scowl remained as potent as ever.

"Of course it would: friends with a budding Death Eater cosy with the Dark Lord!" Sirius replied hotly, his voice filled with bitterness.

"She was eight," Snape responded disdainfully, "and, as you say, _cosy_ with a man who once told her stories and not with a despotic overlord bent on cleansing the Wizarding world. By the time Ophelia was sixteen she would have gained enough political acumen to realise that refusal would have earned her a painful death and that compliance would guarantee her a future, even if it would be bleak." He slid his hands off the table and hugged his ribs sullenly.

"So you agree with me that she won't join Vol- err _Him_?"

Snape suddenly shot forward and from behind his lank, black hair fixed him with a baleful gale. "Do you understand nothing?" A fleck of foamy spittle landed on his upper lip and his nostrils quivered as rapid puffs of air passed through them. "She has spent years within their grasp, subtly learning that he is all powerful and without mercy; learning that he is life and death." His face was red and trembled, his eyes were glinting shards of flint and his voice was scathing in its contempt. "Her fear will encourage her to seek him out. Her fear will keep her loyal."

Loyalty: the notion sent his mind back into his memory; he kept seeing her delicate fingers destroy the violets as if some clue to her thinking, to her soul, could be divined from the pattern of twisted and torn petals littering her lap. There was something about violets: he had the vague and unreasonable impression that the flowers were somehow more relevant than their unthinking destruction. An image of Professor Sprout came to mind, humming as she wove a garland of ivy and periwinkle blossoms and her blush when she noticed him watching her from the doorway.

"If we could allay her fears, convince her of her safety, would she be content to stay with us?"

Snape eased back, his face schooled into impassivity as he turned to face Dumbledore. "It would take a great deal of encouragement and effort and even then I doubt that she could be entirely trusted."

The concept of Snape attacking the trustworthiness of another rankled Sirius and he turned from his inward musings to glare incredulously at the sullen man across from him. "We have to trust you!"

A muscle along Snape's jaw twitched and he flashed Sirius a look of pure venom. "Her every waking moment as a witch has been overshadowed and influenced by the Dark Lord, he has affected her far more profoundly than many of his devout followers, and as such has a much more powerful hold over her. I was merely pointing out that she may unconsciously continue to assist him."

"As I cannot leave her in the Muggle world that is a risk I will have to take."

Wait," Sirius forced out through a constricted throat and held the headmaster's gaze beseechingly. "I thought that she'd be left alone." He licked his lips and fidgeted on the wooden chair. "Surely we could just leave her; after all we're the only ones who know about her."

"It is pure luck that she's managed to stay hidden for so long without the Ministry or Riddle discovering her." Dumbledore looked discomforted. "I fear that we have no choice but to find her and protect her as best we can." He seemed to shirk off the sudden anxiety and smiled warmly at the two wizards. "I think it best if we treat her as a misplaced witch and deal with the more complex issues when we've been able to ascertain her proclivities."

Sirius shook his head and mouthed wordlessly, the implications were staggering. "We're just going to keep her? We're just going to grab her and lock her away?"

"Until the threat is over I can see no other way of keeping her safe." He smiled sadly at Sirius, conveying in that slightly trembling quirk of the lips that there was no argument potent enough to rescind the decision and that this must be suffered with grace: Sirius' protest died in his throat. Dumbledore inhaled deeply and patted his chest. "I think that given the hour we shall continue to discuss Ophelia another time, perhaps closer to when we have found her." He stood and surreptitiously stretched the tight muscles in his back. "Thank you for the tea, Sirius, and your time. Severus has a batch of Wolfsbane potion for Remus and a list of instructions for its usage, and now I must return to Hogwarts."

Snape bent down and lifted his bag onto the table. Sirius gave it a curious glance before following the headmaster into the hallway. He lifted down Dumbledore's jacket and held it out for him.

"Headmaster?" he queried softly and securely, knowing that Snape was still in the kitchen fussing over his phials.

"Yes, my boy."

"It's a little strange but," he stumbled over the absurdity of it, but Dumbledore's gentle curiosity encouraged him, "in the memory Ophelia was carrying a bouquet of violets."

"Really?"

"Yes," he continued heartened by Dumbledore's lack of criticism and derision, "I don't know why, but I have the feeling that they were somehow important, or at least that she did." He floundered for a moment as he tried to put across how deeply he had responded to witnessing their ruination. "She was casually tearing them apart and when she accused me of leaving Regulus she practically threw them at me."

Dumbledore's eyes flickered over his face before he gave another sad little smile and laid a hand gently on Sirius' shoulder. "I can't think of the relevance just yet but a chat with professor Sprout will undoubtedly yield something. Violets you say," his gaze drifted off and he patted Sirius absentmindedly, "lovely flowers. Oh well," he sighed plucking his hat from Sirius' hands, "mustn't dally." He stepped over the threshold only to startle Sirius by suddenly spinning on his heel to face him. "Oh while I'm here it gives me the opportunity to see if you're amenable to a little company."

His grip on the door tightened and his mouth went dry. "You mean Harry?"

Dumbledore gave a broad smile and nodded. "I was also thinking of asking Mrs. Weasley and a few others to help with giving the house a good airing."

Sirius sagged against the doorframe and grinned madly. "The more the merrier!"

Dumbledore nodded once more and with a flourish donned his hat and promptly Disapparated.

"I have left seven phials on the table with a list of simple instructions, and now I have things to attend to, Black." Snape's voice echoed in the hallway and grated down Sirius' nerves. "So, will you end this immature posturing and allow me to pass?"

The giddy euphoria inspired by Dumbledore's request came crashing down and the belligerence that only Snape could incite rushed up to fill the void. He slowly turned to face Snape, his pallid face was oddly striking, a dash of light against the smothering gloom of the hallway; should Snape turn away the shadows would swallow him up. Snape's arms were folded tightly across his chest and his right hand was undoubtedly reaching into a pocket to remove his wand, a disdainful sneer played about the man's mouth.

"It must gall you to be at his beck and call, on a leash and down at his heel," Black said smoothly.

He seemed nonchalant enough leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest and one leg carelessly crossing the other at the ankles, but Snape knew that the wizard seethed with anger and disappointment.

"No more than it pains you to be kennelled."

Sirius pushed himself away from the doorway and took a step towards him, slowly lowering his arms; Snape glanced down at Sirius' empty hands so quickly that Sirius almost missed it.

"Enjoy this while you can Snivellus," he whispered softly, "when they finally come to their senses and see you for what you really are they will leave you to rot in hell."

"As they left you?"

Sirius felt his fingernails bite into his palms and yearned to smash his fist into the smirking face before him.

"Oh yes, Black," Snape continued, breathlessly and ruthlessly, "it must hurt to know that after seeing the worst in both of us they gave me sanctuary and yet left you to waste in Azkaban." He smiled as he watched the mutt's mouth open and close in silent rage. "Tell me, when they have eased their own consciences regarding their desertion of you, and they return to those memories with less clouded eyes, will they, I wonder, see that your arrogance and yours alone instigated the subsequent years of misery? Will they forgive that?"

The thought of it stole his breath and the blood drained from his face so quickly he actually felt it. His thoughts had barely skittered over the concept, uneasy with the repercussions, and certainly no one had hinted at it much less express it so forthrightly. He rallied, he knew his own actions and behaviour had condemned him; how could he blame them for believing the worst? He had forgiven them, hadn't he? They had forgiven him? He forced himself to stare Snape in the eye but the man had used the distraction to slip past him into the dimly lit street. He caught a glimpse of a black coat disappear into the shadows and then a muted pop. Cursing softly he began to push the door closed and ran a trembling hand through his limp hair grimacing at the feel of grease. He thought back to the uncomfortable and stilted conversations with Lupin when he had sought shelter with his friend. They had reached some resolution, achieved some reconciliation. He was sure that Lupin understood and accepted the motives regarding his fateful decision to make Pettigrew the Potter's Secret Keeper. Without thought he allowed the door to bang shut and with a high pitched shriek the large portrait behind its tattered curtain sprang to vitriolic life.

"YOU! YOU BLOOD TRAITOR! YOU FOUL BETRAYER! YOU DO NOT DESERVE TO LIVE! YOU WORTHLESS WORM, YOU SURVIVE TO CORRUPT THIS HOUSE! I SHOULD HAVE THROTTLED YOU WITH YOUR CORD AND SAVED OUR NOBLE HOUSE THE DISGRACE!"

Sirius listened, his breath coming in short laboured gulps and his body trembling with the effort of merely standing. Her words echoed his own swirling treacherous thoughts, drawing them out until with a barely contained sob he was sucked down into a maelstrom of self loathing and suffocating despair. James Potter's face shimmered into focus, the grey eyes red rimmed from exhaustion and sunken from months of worry. He had pulled off his glasses and pressed the heel of his palm into his eyes and then fixed Sirius with a beseeching and desperate look. He remembered with painful clarity the moment that James had asked him to be secret keeper, his friend had come close to begging and the sight had plucked at his heartstrings until his chest had hurt from the pressure.

He had promised.

He had felt James' fingertips bite into the flesh on his arms and heard the tremble in his voice as his red rimmed eyes darted over his face.

He had promised.

Sirius lurched down the hallway into the parlour, his mother's screeching voice muffled by distance and the pounding thoughts in his own head. Had James suspected Peter but not wanted to believe? Sirius howled and clutched his head. The desperate and waxen features of his friend morphed into the pink glistening face of Peter. The young man's face was lit up with eager anticipation as Sirius demanded that he become the Potter's secret keeper. He had put the unshed tears and the hitching breaths down to burgeoning pride and awe.

He had promised James.

He recalled the anger digging through the wreckage at Godric's Hollow, the anger that evaporated his desperation and his shock. He had sobbed when he found the little bundle in the charred but miraculously intact cot, and had succumbed to the remorse and regret that had scratched unheeded at his insides. He remembered placing Harry into Hagrid's arms when his anger gave him the strength to function. The half giant had not protested or queried, he simply held the trembling and sniffling baby in his arms and let his own fat tears drip onto the pastel blue blanket.

He had promised.

Sirius yanked open a small cabinet and used his forearm to shove the delicate crystal glasses out of the way, not caring as they smashed on the floor, and his eager fingers slipped over the decanters until his eyes alighted upon an amber coloured liquid. He pulled it free from its stand and reached for a glass, cursing as he saw the glittering remains on the floor. Removing the stopper he upended the decanter and greedily swallowed the liquid, oblivious to the excess running down his cheeks and chin, mingling with his tears.

He had promised.

He drank until he was forced to take a breath, and gasping and crying, moaning and sobbing, he collapsed into the rotting leather chair, cuddling the decanter to his chest and mumbling to the lengthening shadows.

He had promised.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three.

Smith had been a fixture within the Magical Law Enforcement offices since many of the current senior officers were juniors, and since many of them had thought of him as a harmless relic, they now hardly thought of him at all. He could go anywhere, unnoticed and unchallenged, and to him it was better than any Disillusionment charm or invisibility blanket. He had strolled down to the archives and the Auror on duty, supposedly protecting the vaunted vaults, had released the wards unquestioningly. The guard was more content to grumble about how his superiors had once again passed over him for promotion, and wholeheartedly agreeing that he was being wasted watching over a pile of dusty and mouldering scrolls. The only attention he gave to his role was to dutifully print Smith's name in a large tatty leather bound ledger before directing him graciously towards the archive.

The torches embedded in the mottled stone architrave flared into flickering life as the doors boomed shut behind Smith. The warm twisting light made shadows leap over the rows of shelving that ascended and extended beyond his ability to see. To his left a circular table of highly polished wood glistened like gold in the light, and a simple dark leather wing back chair with clawed feet was angled invitingly. There were no windows, harking back to the early days when the archive was simply a room to store scrolls and the written words had to be protected from the leeching light. Only the ends of each rack were illuminated by the flickering pre-emptive torches but gave enough light to imprint upon the observer the sheer cavernous nature of the room. It took his breath away each and every time.

The archive was elegantly designed and simple to use. Depending upon the search criteria the archive would present information alphabetically, chronologically or if there was doubt, then keywords could be used. He stepped forward and casually noted that the two shelves nearest to him contained material pertaining to the latter part of the fifteen hundreds.

"Nineteen-eighty-two," he whispered respectfully. Some people felt compelled to shout to fill the vastness of the room, but he knew that this place heard the quiet scuttling of spiders. The shelves vibrated slightly, he could feel it through the soles of his boots, and they ponderously began to slide to the left. He had groaned with futile impatience when, as a young Auror, his mentor had dragged him down here and he had seen the shelves begin their slow march. His mentor, a grizzled and scarred Auror by the name of Jenkins, had chuckled indulgently and counted down from five, his eyes twinkling with not unkind mirth. As Jenkins silently mouthed one it seemed as if the room exhaled sharply and the shelves suddenly blurred past, he likened it to the dizzying thrill he had relished when as a child he had pressed his face to the window of the knight Bus and watched the night whiz frantically by.

Four hundred years whipped by and with a grind of wood against stone the shelving slowed, quivered and then stopped. The silver plate flashed golden in the torchlight and without needing to check he descended into the gloom between the looming stacks, no torch light lit his way but he had been here countless times and he knew that light would explode like blossoms from an unseen hovering bud. Sure enough, as he stepped from the edges of firelight, and before his foot fell into shadow, an eye stinging light flared, bathing him and the shelves in silver light. He waited for his eyes to adjust and then stepped past the column for 1980 to its neighbouring column barely a half a foot wide with an engraved plate bearing the year 1981, the year of Ophelia's death. When his finger brushed over the metal plaque the rather diffuse light from the gently bobbing orb focused on the column. Underneath each niche glowing figures appeared on the dark wood, indicating that each slot represented one day of that fateful year. He gripped the base of a niche and pushed down, hard. With a soft sound the entire illuminated section of shelving slipped freely downwards, the records of one second past midnight on January 1st 1981 disappearing into the stone floor. He repeated the motion several times until glittering numbers informed him that he had reached the required niche for his day; 2nd September.

The archive had always fascinated him, the way that magic would distort space so that each column held a year and each niche a day. A day's worth of opened investigations, of Ministerial debates meticulously recorded by fluttering charmed quills. A day's worth of court cases and criminal records, printed news in every Wizarding publication and the births, deaths and marriages of every witch and wizard. The Wizarding world, from the tedious to the notorious, was stored here, trapped on vellum or paper and tied in ribbons; a wondrous gift for the curious. Of course only scrolls that were over five years old and no longer active were stored here. The scrolls not archived were held by the relevant department of the Ministry with ferocious tenacity. However, in the archive, where secrets had long been betrayed or disclosed, the scrolls from all Ministry departments were laid to rest together and for the most part forgotten.

"Ophelia Black; inquest reference AM 513 742." He felt the niche vibrate and with a faint sound of paper scratching against wood a thick scroll popped into being. He gently removed it and untied the black ribbon from around its middle, taking a firmer hold as the restrained paper relaxed with a rasping sigh. He gripped the curling edges and unrolled it further, his eyes catching words such as tragedy and accident. The report was crisp in its description of the chaos and confusion facing the Aurors when they Apparated into the Muggle train station, and concise in its recording of the actions taken. Moody had always been very particular and precise. According to the scroll the investigation had been open for three days before, with an ineligible scrawl confirming the exactitude and finality of the investigation, Moody had rolled the scroll and Ophelia was dead. He let go of the base and let the scroll curl up.

"Ophelia Black. All." Once again the niche trembled as the archive searched its own deep recesses and spewed forth six scrolls, each one tied with a differently hued ribbon, each one from a different department within the Ministry. Somehow, and he suspected some subtle intelligence at work, the archive knew to restrict its search to the same Ophelia Black that he had originally identified rather than trawl through its entirety, its response was always rapid and relevant. At a glance he saw a purple ribbon so deep in hue it appeared black, golden ribbon shimmered on two scrolls, a thicker scroll was held in emerald green and a thin scroll was tied with sapphire blue. The last one was bound with a black ribbon.

"Follow!" he commanded and the scrolls levitated in clumsy obedience.

As he stepped from between the racks the dazzling light blinked off and the torches began to burn once more. Smith walked stiffly towards the table and the comfort of the leather chair with the scrolls dipping and swaying precariously in the air behind him. He sat himself down and the scrolls fluttered onto the table. Another feature of the archive that had both astounded and comforted him was the absolute privacy it afforded its patrons. The same magic that existed within Time Turners resided in the very stone of this room and each visitor or group had their own private slice of time to walk the shelves and read the archives, and as such no scroll was ever unavailable. On leaving, to maintain normal time lines, the magic merely determined the length of time in the room and added it to the time you entered. The archive was no means to twist time for personal gain: if you were in it for an hour, then an hour it would be.

He slid the scrolls closer and selected one with a golden ribbon. It unfurled between his fingers to reveal an application and acceptance for guardianship. After the death of Capella Black, her brother, Alphard Black, had petitioned to be Ophelia's legal guardian. Social nurses had investigated the petition and determined that he and his wife, Elladora, were both financially and emotionally prepared to care for a four-year-old orphan and the request was freely granted. The scroll contained the limited personal information of the young child, her age – four, and magical status – witch, the name of her mother – Capella Black, and the fact that the father was unknown. The child had been placed with Muggle social services after the police had been called by a concerned neighbour and discovered the daughter exhausted and cuddling the cold corpse of her mother. Ministry officials had smoothed the way for the child to be placed with her aunt and uncle and so she had been sucked into a world that her mother had abandoned. The second golden scroll, as expected, was the transfer of guardianship from the deceased Mrs. Black to Madam Andromeda Tonks.

With a soft sigh he allowed the scroll to curl in on itself and reached for another, avoiding the thin scroll with its purple band. The emerald green ribbon fluttered from his fingers and he pulled open the scroll. The first article to be written about her in the _Daily Prophet_ centred on her rescue from the Muggle world following the suspicious death of her mother in Cumbria. The _Daily Prophet_ placed such heavy emphasis on the Ministry's decision to investigate that many readers had been convinced of some insidious plot by Muggles to hunt down solitary wizards. To quell anti-Muggle sentiments the law enforcement officers had decided to publish the results of the investigation: Capella Black had died from the Killing Curse; no Muggle could have been responsible. Hushed whispers abounded that You-Know-Who had done it and stifled rumours sputtered that it had been a suicide. Other articles delved into the alleged dark history of Capella and spewed out unproven opinions and unanswerable accusations. Smith sniffed and huffed in disgust, calumny at its most tantalising and most cruel, without prospect of rebuttal or response. Other articles followed her and reported when she settled with the Black's, the obituaries of her guardians, Narcissa Black's marriage and, of course, her own death. His eyes flicked over the text and he resolved himself to ask for a copy to peruse at his leisure later.

The sapphire blue scroll was the last will and testament of Elladora Demeter Black and Ophelia's name appeared on a codicil bequeathing her the contents of vault 759, deep in the bowels of Gringotts' bank.

The penultimate scroll sprung open upon its release and rocked slowly on its curve, the exposed ink glistening like blood in the firelight. He knew what it was without smoothing the paper flat. He'd seen that deep shade of purple on many scrolls, sometimes well before he thought was right. He used his fingertips to pin the scroll flat and peered down his crooked nose at the elegant copperplate disguising the harsh missive: a death certificate. Death was determined and pronounced to have occurred at nineteen minutes past eight on the evening of 2nd September 1981. The cause of death was severe burns due to her involvement in the train accident, and deemed accidental. Smith let go and the paper curled up. He focused on the last scroll, an Auror investigation involving a death, and suspected that it regarded Capella Black's.

The Aurors sent to the scene had been as thorough as possible given that police, doctors and neighbours had trudged through the terrace house in Hampton place. There had been no signs of a struggle, no broken furniture, or the tell-tale traces of wildly cast magic clinging to the walls and bed linen. There had been no signs of forced entry, no broken glass or split wooden window frames and no isolated footprints on the burgundy carpet of an Apparating trespasser.

The Muggle coroners had been forced to reach an open verdict until wizards had Obliviated and explained that the unfortunate woman had a congenital heart weakness and had died suddenly and peacefully in her sleep. The slim tapered piece of polished hawthorn that had fallen from limp fingers and rolled under the metal framed bed had been eliminated from their records as easily as from their minds. The Aurors had forced the wand to regurgitate its most recent spells and from its belly it had spewed green light. The Aurors had studied the gathered evidence from police files and their own findings and sadly concluded that she had cast the Killing Curse upon herself. The Auror reports and the summary were all that documented the life and death of an unremarkable witch from a notorious family. Ophelia had been prised from her mother's eternal embrace by a neighbour and collected four days later by her aunt and uncle.

He may not have acquired, through experience and natural predisposition, the level of cynicism and paranoia cultivated by Alastor Moody, but he had what he called feelings. These unquantifiable and indescribable sensations had more often than not panned out into solid truths, and even Moody had once learnt to trust them. Smith's feelings were currently fluttering in his stomach and crawling up his spine. Even the most in-depth and finicky of investigations yielded loose ends or threw up unanswered questions, and yet the collection of scrolls neatly and comprehensively tied everything up. In a time when people craved simplicity the incomplete reports were accepted and the unasked questions dismissed: Capella Black had committed suicide and Ophelia Black had died in a train wreck. It was not unheard of for wizards to end their lives with the Killing Curse and it certainly raised no doubts as to the sincerity of the desire to die, but he could not find one good reason as to why Capella would kill herself with no provision or thought for her daughter. As to Ophelia's apparent death he could not accept that Moody had somehow fumbled the investigation, the man was too pedantic to make simple errors; besides, forensic evidence would have been gathered and tested in one of the Ministry labs to determine the identities of the badly burnt corpses. The probability of two procedures delivering similarly erroneous results were far too infinitesimal to bother calculating and far too worrisome to ponder.

He made copies of the scrolls with a simple Duplication Charm, and after reducing them he shoved them into his breast pocket and banished the originals back to their niche. The doors opened silently as he moved to leave and in the hallway he caught an eerie glimpse of dozens of blurred figures comprised of smoke walking back and forth and through each other before he was returned to real time. The hallway was gloomy and deserted. The dour-faced Auror was still hunched over his _Daily Prophet_ and adopting the pained expression particular to those people attempting crossword puzzles slightly out of their grasp. Smith coughed delicately, the guard huffed impatiently, slowly lowered the paper and twisted in his seat to grab the thick tattered ledger nestled under the counter. He slid the book towards Smith who obligingly signed his name in the out column while his eyes darted surreptitiously over the page, noting the names of recent users.

"All done then?" the guard queried apathetically before picking up his abandoned newspaper and returning to agonise over two down.

Smith bade the engrossed guard a stiff farewell and hobbled back along the dreary corridor. He needed a place to think and a place to plan his next move.

---X---

Minerva blew over the surface of her chamomile tea and looked out of the arched and criss-crossed leaded window. Summer was rapidly slipping into autumn and in the highlands the decline was far more noticeable. Although the sky was a vivid blue and the early morning sun felt strong as it pierced the slim window she could see trees twisting in a strong, bitter wind and the distant peaks were coated with early snow. She shivered and took a sip of tea, glad that she was tucked in her office with a roaring fire and a thick shawl. Perhaps later when the morning chill had passed she would take a stroll by the lake, to sit beneath the large beech tree and watch the sunlight filter through the autumn tinted leaves. She had sat there once as a student so full of promise and dreams, her life opening out before her, so dazzled by choices that it had stolen her breath. It would be nice to try to capture that energy and vigour, that undaunted expectation that life would unfurl as it should.

Her office window overlooked the inner courtyard where students would congregate, protected by the tall grey stone of the school, and chatter like raucous birds. It was in this enclosed area that Madam Hooch introduced the first years to flying, and from this window that she had witnessed Harry Potter's breathtaking skills on a broom. She exhaled softly at the memory and shuddered: the echo of her horror at watching his plummeting dive still had the power to accelerate her heart and make her skin tingle.

She glanced at the complex Arithmancy clock charmed to the wall, its numerous golden hands rotating and jerking around the mother of pearl face with its concentric arrangement of runes, alchemical and astronomical symbols. At her request Dumbledore had charmed a clock face onto the contraption in pale oyster pink, and to avoid entanglement in the workings of the clock the numbers had been spelled to change colour to indicate the hour and the minute. It was a beautiful clock of glittering metals on a smooth pearlescent face ensconced in a rich mahogany wooden frame. She often watched the intricate hands move in precise and delicate detail, but as their meaning eluded her it was just a wonderful gadget which whirred and ticked in a soothing rhythm. The numbers eight and three glowed blue and red respectively: quarter past eight.

Without the students to fill the day and steal the time the days seemed to drag and now more so than ever. Sighing gently she turned to her desk and the piles of parchment and envelopes. In anticipation the quill quivered to attention and dipped itself eagerly into the pot of green ink. It was not difficult to find some task to help pass the time and occupy her mind and now, as she was forced to wait, she craved that distraction. The names of potential students blurred before her eyes and several letters had been reduced to ash as her mind drifted to the stone corridors within the Ministry of Magic. The quill scratched across the rough paper and her fingernails beat a tattoo against the table: would Harry be outside the Offices of Improper Use of Magic now? Would he have the same intense agitation swirling in his stomach and playing havoc with his heart and chest? She knew that Dumbledore would be there and she had no doubt that Harry would derive comfort and strength from his presence. A part of her was confident that the accusations against Harry would be swiftly dropped and the boy allowed to return to Hogwarts. But a deeper part quailed and shivered.

She remembered with painful clarity how the Dementor had swooped down upon the potion-addled Barty Crouch Jr., and how the boy had gained enough wits to scream and struggle as the mouth descended upon his own. She had tuned away and seen the rapt attention etched on Fudge's pale face. A man who could allow such an atrocity and watch it so eagerly could plot and put in motion any number of foul machinations. Her insides clenched and she bit down on her lower lip as fear coiled up her spine; a fear that had recently grown in strength, fed by the firm assurances of Harry and the cold body of Cedric Diggory. The letter crumpled in her desperate grip. Dumbledore had, that very night, declared his intentions openly to Fudge who, no doubt, had twisted the headmaster's words into the ramblings of a seditious madman. Since then Dumbledore's power had been leeched from him and his character and reputation torn to shreds within the pages of the _Daily Prophet_. The man himself had taken it sanguinely enough, but she had trembled with anger and anxiety. A corner began to dig painfully into her hand and with a curse that would have distressed her students she flung the crumpled parchment to the floor. She stared at the slowly unfurling paper while her mind narrowed down to one thought consuming truth – _He_ was back.

The quiet pop of an elf appearing roused her from her dreadful daydreaming, and relying on a combination of pragmatism and pride she straightened her spine and smiled at the pensive elf.

"Yes Nimni?"

"You asked Nimni to tell you when the headmaster is back." The house elf squeaked in barely hidden trepidation, as the bearers of ill news often do. "The headmaster is back now, Professor McGonagall."

"Back?" she demanded sharply, her eyes focusing on the clock and blind to the elf shrinking back. "It's ten to nine, he should be leaving!"

Oblivious to the splatter of green ink across the table and the dislodged stationery fluttering to the floor she stepped around the desk, past the cowering elf, and stormed out of her office. The anger sustained her down two flights of stairs and along the stone corridor, the sound of her rapid footfalls echoing through the deserted hallways an ominous herald of her wrath. The anger drained from her as she stood before the stone griffin and dread settled heavily in her stomach, sapping her strength. She placed a hand on the stone architrave and waited until she caught her breath and ordered her thoughts. At her password the griffin spun aside to reveal the stone steps. She promptly ascended and once again she found herself hesitating, her hand hovering an inch from the dark wooden door. She rapped on it and the door opened smoothly. Inside, papers littered the desk and pooled on the floor and a lantern burned despite the light streaming in through the windows. She paused to listen and caught the faint sounds of running water from the upper level of the Headmaster's office. She glanced around, noting the stale untouched sandwich and the silver pot of coffee charmed to stay hot and issuing steam from its slender spout. A rumpled cloak was draped over the back of his chair and his nightcap rested on the seat. She banished the curling sandwich and countered the charmed coffee pot before the contents boiled away. She hung up the travelling cloak and spelled the papers into neat piles.

"He's been working all night," drawled a sleepy voice, "that boy will be the death of him."

She turned quickly to see Phineas Nigellus slipping into his painted chair and twisting to plump up the cushions behind him before settling back down. Many of the portraits were empty now that the school was closed, but those few that were occupied mumbled their disapproval, flashing darks looks at the notorious wizard. Smirking back at the ruffled portraits he stuffed his hands into the sleeves of his deep green robes, snuggled himself into the softness of the chair and closed his eyes.

"Ah, Minerva."

Her head snapped round so quickly that her glasses slipped down her nose and she fixed the Headmaster with a perplexed stare. She noted with concern the shadows under his eyes and his rounded shoulders.

"What's happened? Were you excluded from the hearing?"

"No Minerva, nothing so obviously obstructive." Dumbledore gripped the wooden handrail and slowly moved down the curved stairs, his midnight blue robes shimmering in the sunlight. He glanced around his tidied office and wrinkled his nose at the smell of burnt coffee. "Minister Fudge decided that it was in the best public interests to rouse the full court, and therefore felt obliged to alter the time and setting for the trial."

"He _what_?", Minerva stumbled towards the nearest chair, clutching the fabric above her frantic heart and tried to divine from the lines on the headmaster's face the mysteries of Fudge's motives. "Harry faced the Wizengamot!" Her horror intensified and she felt the room spin as she fought for breath.

"Have no fear, Minerva," he spoke quickly, concerned at her sudden pallor and rapid breathing. He quickly moved forward to place a hand on her elbow to ease her down onto the chair. "I was alerted of the alteration, albeit almost too late, and was able to appear as Harry's defence. The Wizengamot voted in favour of dropping the charges and Harry was released. As Phineas has returned I expect that Harry is safe at Grimmauld place and enjoying the exuberant company of his friends."

She sighed as the crushing weight evaporated and feeling giddy with relief she slumped in the chair. "Sweet Merlin!"

"Indeed."

Apprehension sliced through the fog of sheer relief and she felt her spine stiffen at the inflection in his voice. His voice lacked fervour and energy, hinting that worse lay ahead. She studied Dumbledore more closely and noticed that the lines on his face were more deeply etched and his skin dull and grey. Phineas' mild chastisement of Dumbledore's pains took on a deeper meaning.

"When did you last sleep?"

She thought she caught a flash of irritation in his eyes, but whatever she saw was quickly replaced with a fondness that plucked at her heart. "The mirror was quite effusive on my behalf as well – almost to the point where I felt forced to threaten it with a Silencing Charm before I dared to trim my moustache." His smile slipped and he quickly glanced away from Minerva's piercing gaze. "He has attacked me with little effect, and therefore has turned his attention to the only other with the power to sway public opinion. I could not afford to rest when such a threat loomed over Harry."

She thought to argue but thought better of it. She had had her fair share of sleepless nights, and had suffered them as she thought right: silently and without interference.

"Minister Fudge's attempts to undermine me by stripping me of my positions within the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards were not unexpected. He clings to power solely because no threat exists powerful enough to cause wizards to rethink their current policies. He has, over the years, diverted monies from those departments necessary to maintain a defence against such insurgents and used it to make his office comfortable." Scorn dripped from every word and his face twisted in disgust. "His position, achieved due to the euphoria after defeating a terrible Dark Lord, cannot stand the wrath of a disillusioned and terrified population. He will be forced to stand down to make way for another Barty Crouch Sr. He is, therefore, weaving a complex tapestry of lies and deceptions to turn our warnings into the deranged ramblings of an old man and a mad boy. He will discover that it will rapidly become his shroud." He was breathing quite hard and his eyes blazed such as they had the night he confronted Fudge in the infirmary and first gave the Minister his dire warnings. "We are fortunate," he continued more calmly, "that he lacks any imagination and was therefore forced to use the Ministry to try to upset matters further."

"Lacks imagination! The man sent Dementors to attack a boy, Albus."

"I'm not so sure that he did." He smiled as he watched her face darken and her lungs expand ready to unleash a verbal volley. "He seemed quite agitated about the presence of Dementors in Little Whinging, more so than my presence at the hearing which in itself must have put quite a crimp in his morning." Minerva expelled the held air and sagged as the weight of another unseen enemy bore down. "I fear that others are at work in our downfall."

"Well at least Harry stays in school, here he is safe." She frowned and scowled. "Well, safer at least."

He chuckled and settled back in the chair, content that for the time being he could risk relaxing. "I doubt that Cornelius will leave us alone quite so readily, rumours abound that should we fail to find a replacement teacher for the position of defence against the dark arts then the Ministry will appoint one for us."

She looked horrified as she grappled with the concept. "They will appoint one for us!" she repeated incredulously, "a Ministry approved teacher here at Hogwarts! Someone to scurry back to Fudge, you mean," she added darkly.

"We still have two weeks to find a replacement, but I can predict with some accuracy that our endeavours will prove fruitless; therefore I think our time will be better spent warning the faculty of the Ministry's impending beneficence."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four.

"And this, of course, is the classroom, with your office adjoining it just up those stairs." Minerva stepped aside to let Dolores Umbridge saunter into the classroom and watched with reigned in dislike as the stumpy woman surveyed the room. "Please feel free to alter the room as you see fit, just as all the other professors have before you."

"Oh, I shall," Umbridge responded breathlessly, her face splitting into an officious smile. "I so want the students to know that things are changing for the better."

Minerva bristled at the insinuation, but managed to summon a gracious smile. "I'm sure that the Ministry want nothing more than to demonstrate that to the students." Umbridge's wide smile faltered and her large eyes narrowed. "Shall I show you the staffroom now, or would you prefer to settle in first?"

"The students will be arriving in just under an hour so I shall set to work preparing the classroom and repairing the office."

"Very well." Minerva grabbed the handle and started to back out, but was stopped by a curious delicate sound.

"Hem hem."

"Yes professor Umbridge?"

"I would very much like to speak with all the teachers at some point during the evening."

"I don't see a problem with that; I'm sure the rest of the staff will be equally delighted to meet you."

"Thank you, professor McGonagall. I think it's important that we all know where we stand with each other from the offset."

"Of course. I'm sure that the sentiment will be appreciated and duly reciprocated. Good evening, Professor Umbridge."

With the door shut behind her Minerva exhaled slowly and eased the throbbing joints in her hand. She noted with some annoyance the groove on her palm where the door handle had bitten into the skin from her ever tightening grip in response to her rising anger. She had been shocked and dismayed when Dolores Jane Umbridge had walked into her office and presented herself as the Ministry's approved teacher. She recalled that Umbridge had been the Senior Undersecretary for the Minister, and had been one of those wizards present at Harry Potter's mockery of a trial who had sought a conviction. The few words of pleasantries shared between them had done nothing to ease Minerva's appalled disgust, but Dumbledore had insisted that the woman be treated cordially and, therefore, Minerva would be nothing less than polite. The effort had left her with aching jaw muscles, a throbbing headache and lancing pains through her wrist. She grimaced at the prospect of working with Dolores Umbridge, wondering if Madam Pomfrey had sufficient supplies of Headease potion, and only mildly comforted by the fact that no defence teacher had lasted more than a year in nearly two decades.

---X---

"I must pass on my respects to Onesiphorus for his foresight and quick actions." Dumbledore said solemnly.

"I've got Smith looking into things at the Ministry; no one better suited to go pokin' around."

Dumbledore nodded slowly and tapped his forefinger against his lips. "I wonder what is in her head, lost in the chaos, that could be so important as to cause such consternation. The paperwork alone should be enough to put off even the most stalwart keeper of secrets."

"Norwood was telling the truth about extracting Ophelia Black on Ministry orders, and all the other Aurors involved in the abduction are now dead, so I can't check with 'em." He gave the tea a once over and then took a large gulp. "He got little from her, even under Veritaserum and the Imperius Curse. He cast a Memory Modification Charm an' put her back on the train. All neat an' without fuss. According to him the train was intact and even runnin' on time."

"What do you suspect?"

"It's a little too early to go guessin'." Moody glowered and drummed his fingers on the chair arm. "I checked out ol' Norwood and he was clean, no sign of memory tamperin' at all." He leant forward and the firelight caught his eye. "I suggest someone being there when Ophelia wakes up: just in case."

"I'm thinking of asking Remus to assist Minerva."

"Lupin's no good for this," he scoffed gently. "You need someone who'll look for wrongness." He sat back and scratched idly at his chin. "Don't think I ain't takin' this pers'nal. It's my name on those reports saying she's dead, and it seems a bit too coincidental that my hairs should be placed at the murder of the only person around who may have been able to shed some light on the matter." He glared at Dumbledore, both eyes equally terrible as they blazed with indignant fury. "Someone used my good name to cover somethin' up back then, and is using my bad reputation to incriminate me now."

He knew better than to mock his friend, indeed it was wiser to listen to him. "Come now, Alastor, they would have to have known a fair bit about your reasons for visiting Norwood in the first place to be able to successfully implicate you in his murder on the grounds of reasonable motive." Moody shrugged indifferently and took another gulp of tea. "And who would feel obliged to hold on to clippings of your hair for nearly twenty years on the off chance that you would visit with a prospective and propitious murder victim?" Dumbledore ignored Moody's scowl and smoothed down his beard. "However, as absurd as it sounds, I am inclined to believe you; too many other incidents have taken place over the last few months for me to comfortably dismiss anything at the moment."

"Smith says that things are happenin' within the Ministry as well, reassignments and old scrolls being shuffled around. Of course," he said slowly, "could be just them clearing house in light of what you've said."

"Well, it is nice to think that my words have had some impact upon the Ministry," Dumbledore said with a wry smile.

Moody dragged his hand down his face and grimaced at the stubble scratching his palm; he needed to rest but he sensed that clouds were gathering, and that Ophelia Black was some desperate conductor to that ever increasing power. His investigations had yielded little and what he had was contradictory. He had resigned himself to just finding her and leaving the pesky details until later; after she was suitably restrained and her possible threat diminished.

"Smith has a lead," he said quietly; "a wizard by the name of Smethwyck."

"Walter?" Dumbledore asked with some caution.

"The very same," Moody answered, nodding and studying the blank face before him. "Apparently he was involved in some scheme to influence and blackmail high rankin' wizards. Of course, most of that is well known if not now forgotten, but Smith seems to think that he may have more information about Ophelia." He sat back and winced as both chair and his spine creaked.

"Let us hope that the trail, as they say, does not dry up; we have so little to go on." Dumbledore dropped the hairs and fibres onto his saucer and waved a hand over them; the silver and black strands curled up, smoked a little, and then turned to barely visible ash. "How is your Muggle friend progressing?"

"He's sortin' through her past addresses." Moody gave a sudden harsh bark of a laugh and grinned bitterly. "She's moved round quite a bit, hasn't settled, flighty little thing. Anyone would think that she was either runnin' or been made to move on." He inhaled and grunted unhappily. "The proverbial needle wasn't as hard to find!" He leaned forward over the table and fixed Dumbledore with an intense glare. "There are other things that he's findin' an' all" he added firmly. He shook his head and grimaced. "A fair mystery is Ophelia!"

"We must solve this puzzle quickly," Dumbledore responded firmly. "Things are moving too quickly for this to be drawn out much longer."

"What he's found so far is pretty good, in a way. Apparently she was put in isolation for attacking another patient. She said that she was keepin' him safe from these demons that swept through the hospital."

"Now that is interesting," Dumbledore said softly, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Are you suggesting that she fought Dementors?"

"Accordin' to the doctor's report she was screamin' and tryin' to drag the man off the bed. The nurse who witnessed it all said that it looked as if she were battlin' with somethin' at the side of the bed. O' course the poor devil didn't add anythin' on account of him havin' been kissed."

"How could she have withstood being that close to a Dementor?"

Moody shrugged his shoulders. "You can gain some tolerance to them if you have to, and they aren't focused on you. She did spend a few weeks in the infirmary, however, recoverin' from the ordeal; had to be heavily sedated." Moody frowned and scratched the side of his nose thoughtfully. "In fact that seemed to spark a spate of attacks and aggressive behaviour."

"It's not unrealistic to think that the presence of Dementors feeding off the other patients would have impacted upon her." Dumbledore shuddered slightly and wondered if Ophelia had been in such proximity to gorging Dementors that she had learnt to tolerate them.

Dumbledore had devoted quite a large proportion of his free time to finding out about Ophelia Black. He had collated all her school reports and coursework and pored over the treasured parchments. He had literally sifted through his memories trying to build a picture of a rather demure and unremarkable witch. He was aggrieved to realise that although she had been in the school for five years very little was known about her. It was just like a puzzle, he had pieces here and there, some were scattered across the table and the rest were still in the box. It was made worse by the fact that he had no picture to follow, no real clues as to how they fitted together. What would the puzzle reveal? Would it be an accurate representation of the woman that she had become? Would it bolster his flagging hopes and reveal a woman ready to aid them, or crush him with an image of a viper?

"O' course not," Moody readily agreed. "I was just ponderin' her desire to protect the others. Don't really smack of being a vicious Muggle hatin' Death Eater."

"No," Dumbledore said with a smile. "It doesn't."

"Now, don't go grinnin' on me!" warned Moody grimly. "Just because I may be thinkin' that she could be more than she seems don't meant that I believe it!"

Dumbledore chuckled amiably. "Alastor, have no fear: I still know that you're a cynic through and through."

Despite the humour between them and the faint hope of an ally, they were aware that this was a lull in the storm. They sat in silence save for the tap dripping into the deep ceramic sink and the creaks and groans of the house settling. From upstairs came the muffled sound of hooves and claws scrabbling on the wooden floor as Buckbeak paced his attic prison. Lost in their thoughts, time carelessly moved on, measured by the regular drips and their own breaths, unceasingly leading them to an uncertain future.

---X---

His appetite had long withered. He ate because he knew that he had to. Sitting opposite his wife was chattering away about how the day had gone and would he mind if she went and had her hair done. He mumbled his approval while moving a piece of potato round his plate. When did this start? When did his life become so swamped and smothered? When did he start to doubt his own mind?

"What is it, dear?" she asked gently. She had watched him idly pushing food around, and then eating with apparent gusto only to look queasy and return to his playing. Her unease and concern had increased in intensity over the last week, and she had blamed the Ministry for his lacklustre outlook and diminished appetite. He was quiet and subdued, yet mumbled and muttered under his breath when he thought her out of ear shot.

He looked up from his plate and into her concerned blue eyes. He was about to answer, to do as he always did and confide in her the woes of his job and the weight of his position. But tonight he felt a vice round his throat and a stifling pressure in his head. It seemed that a thousand voices were screaming and shouting in his ears. He felt bowed and battered beneath the mental barrage. He wondered why she sat there so quiet and still while he trembled and struggled for breath. Couldn't she see that he was straining, that he was suffering, that each breath was a labour and each thought an agony.

"Nothing, dear," he finally managed to mutter_. Run, my love,_ some deep part of him screamed. _Get away! Get away before I do that terrible, disgusting thing to you again …oh … not again … Who are you that do this to me?_

She pursed her lips in annoyance; he was so listless and withdrawn lately. He sat morosely at the dinner table whenever he managed to come home in time to eat with her, and seemed to stay seated out of politeness rather than desire. His simple yet staggering signs of affection that still stole her breath after twenty years of marriage had become more a thing of habit than need. She was at a loss what to do. He was slipping away from her and she had no idea why, and more importantly how to stop it.

He saw a flicker of pain and confusion cross her features and then she smiled. He felt his lips twitch in weak mimicry and tried to eat a few more mouthfuls under her concerned scrutiny. The clock chimed and their cutlery clattered against crockery. He was aware of her curious glances and was surprised at the rising wave of irritation he felt. To distract himself he gathered up the dishes and carried them into the kitchen. In the solitude he could hear the whispers that were now such a part of him that he couldn't remember what silence was.

_She knows! She suspects! She is a threat to us!_

_We cannot allow her to interfere. She must not divert us. She must not stop us!_

She daintily dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin and tried not to succumb to her nascent dread. She had never known him to be so closed, so reticent, and if his work meant that he had to be he had always made it clear that he couldn't tell her. She disliked this wall, this barrier that had descended between them. She decided to wait, Brian always told her what was bothering him, and she would be there when he was ready.

He placed the plates in the sink and turned on the tap to rinse the gravy and remains of potato away. He frowned and tried to block out the thoughts that had pestered and plagued him since he had heard a name that he had hoped would never be uttered by a Wizard. He felt bile rush up, burning as it did; he realised that he had done everything that those whispered voices had asked.

_You need to do these things; you know that they are important. One curse! One life! These are nothing to what will result should you fail._

He turned off the tap and watched the last dirty dregs of water slip down the plug hole. He swallowed as a wave of nausea rolled up and he had to take a steadying breath to control the burgeoning desperation. He had done what he had had to do; he derived little comfort from the fact that fate had allowed him to walk away knowing that he wasn't a killer. He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut until the orbs hurt under the pressure.

He had held his wand against Norwood's temple and the words had leapt to his lips. A frantic part of him had raged and screamed while another smothered and made him carry out his grim duty. He had barely uttered the first syllable of the Killing Curse when Norwood had jerked and spluttered in his chair, his red eyes bulging as he clutched at his heart and reached out beseechingly. Ashen faced and pleading Norwood had managed to stand and lunge towards him, his potential murderer now his only hope as he fought and struggled to live.

Stepping back he had left the old man to fall heavily onto the rug. He had watched dispassionately as the dying man choked and gasped, shuddered and jerked. The little frantic movements slowed and then as Norwood gave his last sigh, his last rattling gasp, movement ceased. Viscous drool ran from the grotesque gaping mouth and pooled by the flaccid and grey cheek. Breathing hard he had cast the Killing Curse upon the still warm corpse and then arranged the room to suit his purpose.

He knew that his efforts had not yielded everything that he had intended, but it was no matter as he was in a position to have a great many things arranged. He smiled grimly and looked up and out of the window; his smile slipped when he saw his reflection in the glass. Who was it that looked back? Who was it that could do these things? He shivered and turned away; whoever it was, they were needed. For what dread purpose and till what end he had no idea, and he found some comfort in the fact that he didn't have to look them in the eyes.

"Shall I wash, Brian?" Evelyn asked softly, almost tentatively as if she feared her question would cause concern.

"Evelyn, my dear," Brian crooned gently, smiling and opening up his arms to her. He felt disgust and fear clash with triumph and glee as she smiled and stepped into his duplicitous embrace. "I have to do this!"

Evelyn stiffened in his arms at the tone he had used, she inhaled slowly and her mouth went dry. The arms around her no longer seemed loving but restricting. She tried to pull away, to look her husband in the eye.

"If there were any other way I would have taken it, but I have no choice," he continued in the same light hearted voice, so viciously paradoxical to the way he gripped and held her.

She sobbed, and for the first time in her life she felt panicked in her husband's presence, the strength that had supported her now smothered her. "Please, Brian," she whispered breathlessly. "Whatever it is we can fix it."

"No, my love," he responded firmly, without any trace of remorse or regret. "This is the only way."

Evelyn felt him shift his stance and his right arm slide away from her body. With a shriek she felt the tip of something press into her ribs, and as she used all her strength to push him away she saw a mad fire in his eyes as he smiled softly at her. Her wide, fear stricken eyes searched his for any clue to his delusion and madness and then to the steady wand aimed at her heart.

"Imperio!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five.

"To say that the staff aren't happy is an understatement!" Minerva stopped pacing and rubbed her aching temples. "Half of them have demanded that she be summarily dismissed on the grounds of being an interfering Ministerial busybody, some of the others want a pay rise as an incentive to resist the temptation to hex her, and all of them want another staffroom secretly arranged so as to be able to avoid her during their breaks."

"I need something more damning than nosiness to terminate her contract, and although they deserve an increased salary for their tolerance, I cannot accede to that either."

In the throes of anger she failed to detect the cold edge to Dumbledore's voice, or the fact that his eyes had not left the piece of parchment held tightly in his fingers. Had her mind not been revolving around the recent staff meeting and the angry and bitter teachers protesting about each and every one of Umbridge's transgressions she may have seen his eyes burning and his face set into grim lines.

"Did you know that some of the staff are running a sweepstake on exactly what will happen to Umbridge at the end of the year?" She sighed in exasperation and slipped into a chair. "If the students find out about it we'll never be able to discipline them again!"

Exhausted and empty she dropped her head into her hands, and stared blankly at the intricate patterns on the rug beneath her feet. After a few moments of silence a certain dread crept over her. Those things she had seen and heard, but not processed, clamoured for attention and she risked a peek at the headmaster. She swallowed hard and gripped the chair arms. "Albus?" she queried tremulously.

He forced his eyes from the words scrawled on the letter and focused on the witch sitting pensively in front of him. "Yes, Minerva?"

"What in heaven's wrong?"

"The Ministry have passed Educational Decree number twenty-three." He lifted the letter, and then in an unaccustomed display of anger he slammed it down onto the table, his splayed fingers trembling over the thick parchment. "It proposes a new role within the Ministry of Magic in which it will have the power to assess the level and standard of education offered and maintained by this school. As of today the professors will be inspected to determine their suitability in their chosen role, anyone falling short of the Ministry's targets for educational excellence will be placed on probation with the view that they will be discharged if there is no significant improvement." He released the piece of paper and flexed his fingers. "I'm sure that you recall a prior educational decree obliging the Ministry to find replacement teachers should the school fail to do so."

She barely managed a nod; the sheer weight of knowledge was pressing painfully on the top of her skull, pushing out all other thoughts and threatening to crush the fragile hold on her composure.

"The newly formed role is rather aptly dubbed the Hogwarts High Inquisitor, and will be filled by none other than Dolores Jane Umbridge."

"What shall we do?" She managed to croak out past a dry throat and quivering lips.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"You will inform the staff to continue as they normally would. I have every confidence that they will provide Professor Umbridge with nothing less than examples of exemplary teaching. They are moving faster and more rigorously than I would have anticipated."

"What of Potter?"

"I'm afraid that it falls to you, Minerva, to protect him as best you can, and to impress upon him the danger of the situation."

She nodded and straightened in the chair; her duty was clear and it gave her purpose and strength.

"What will you do?"

"With regards to the Hogwarts High Inquisitor," he responded brightly, "there is very little I can do. No," he added more firmly, "I shall turn my attentions to securing our allies as it seems that we are, so they say, on our own."

"Speaking of securing allies have you made any progress in finding Ophelia Black?"

He stared at her blankly for a moment and then sighed softly. "We only have her history while the Muggle world only has her name, and it is proving problematic to bring the two into alignment. Alastor's friend has assured him that it should hopefully only be a matter of searching through the Muggle electoral register."

"Sounds simple enough, so long as she has a home, is in a fit state to vote, or is, in fact, still alive." She bit her lip, shocked and appalled at her bitter observation and rubbed her fingers over her aching and furrowed brow. "I'm sorry, Albus."

"These are trying times, Minerva, but one should never lose hope."

"Since you mentioned finding her I've found myself thinking about her quite frequently." She settled back on the chair and absentmindedly traced patterns on the velour chair arm with her forefinger. "I remember the day she was sorted, so odd that I should, but I can see her sitting on the stool, holding the Sorting Hat so it wouldn't slip past her ears, and staring resolutely at the Slytherin table." Her whimsical smile faltered, and a hint of fearful desperation clouded her pale features. "It's so hard sometimes to remember them like that, and then when you do it hurts." When she looked up at him he was chilled by the hopelessness and despair in her eyes and the solitary tear clinging to her lashes.

He thought to bolster her with strong words of comfort, but the faces of former students that had died flashed before him; the ones who had died standing against him, and those who had died by his side. He sighed and passed a weary hand over his eyes as if to blot out the world, if only for a moment. Perhaps it was enough for Minerva to know that someone else felt the same pain and faced the same battles because when he lifted his eyes she was sitting primly, as if she had never felt the weight of the war bear down upon her and for a moment stumbled.

"I'll inform the staff of your decisions regarding their demands and advice with regards to professor Umbridge's new position." She stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in her deep green velvet skirts and flashed him a sympathetic smile. "I'm sure that Professor Sprout wouldn't mind clearing out greenhouse number eight; with some comfy chairs it'll probably make a fairly decent staffroom. So long as Professor Vector remembers to take her Allergease potion and Severus promises not to blast the violets apart it should be quite pleasant."

"Violets?" The flower triggered a memory, and Sirius' concerned and haggard face coalesced into view.

"Yes. She grows them for Poppy, who insists that the fresher the plant the better the potion. As far as I know Severus uses them in a variety of potions, when he has the time, otherwise Poppy makes her own decoctions."

"Sirius mentioned that Ophelia was holding a bouquet of violets."

"Wouldn't surprise me; she had a fondness for flowers, especially violets. As I recall she was always in the greenhouses helping Pomona tend to the less homicidal plants; even helped her make those special flower arrangements. Pomona used to be rather keen of the language of flowers," she explained, seeing Dumbledore's politely bemused expression, "and she was always making little bouquets for close friends, with their subtle meanings and sentiments. If I recall correctly violets represent modesty, humility and watchfulness." She tilted her head slightly as she dredged her memory and then nodded firmly. "Yes, that's right. Of course they work much like those cards that Sybil carries around with her; invert the flowers and they mean quite the opposite."

Dumbledore stiffened in his chair and recalled the image extracted from Sirius' mind of an outraged and distressed Ophelia thrusting a tattered, inverted bouquet into Sirius' chest. As dread rolled in his gut and blood thundered through his ears he pondered the young girl's intentions. With a dry mouth and trembling fingers the icy realisation crystallised that perhaps Ophelia had been a willing ally of the Dark Lord's even then.

"Are you alright Albus? You've gone quite pale.

---X---

Sirius inhaled slowly, battling the rising anger. He could hear Kreacher, thumping and stomping upstairs as he cleaned and dusted. Outside, the rain was falling hard, hammering against the ground and window. He had never felt so trapped, so caged, and the fact that he was alone, babysitting a hippogriff and dealing with a recalcitrant and vile elf only fuelled his growing sense of discontent and anger. This whole house was drawing out his memories as effectively as the Dementors had; there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. Even the refuge that had spared him while in Azkaban was useless here; his Animagus form just added a heightened sense of smell to increase his misery. The house stank! It reeked of neglect and age, and all the vile twisted ideologies that had been born and nurtured within its walls.

He had watched the others leave the house, moaning about the weather as they slipped free from the house and into the sweet air. He had smiled and wished them luck in their endeavours, even as he seethed and died inside. Lupin going on some secret mission had been the worst knife in his back; the deepest cut. He had embraced him and wished him well and safe return and Lupin had patted him on the shoulder; Sirius had never felt so useless, so pointless.

He had filled the emptiness with tasks, hoping to work off his doldrums, but it had only emphasised his role as housekeeper. He had thrown Buckbeak his dinner of dead ferrets and ordered Kreacher to replace the straw in the attic. Sirius stormed off to the lounge and stared at the cold empty fireplace. He glanced up at the clock and a thought pierced through his increasing sense of worthlessness. The letter that Harry had sent, the one that had spoken of his scar hurting was still on the mantelpiece, fluttering temptingly in a draft. Sirius had mentioned it to Dumbledore and had been dismayed at the Headmaster's apparent disinterest. Well; it seemed that he could change that. He could help Harry. He felt energised and alive; he could do something. While everyone else was chasing shadows and trying to catch smoke, he could be doing something vital.

He aimed his wand at the hearth and watched as his spell created fire. He grabbed a handful of Floo-powder and scattered it into the flickering flames. There was a small chance that Harry would be there. Kneeling on the threadbare rug he leant forwards and peered into what lay beyond. The sight of the Gryffindor common room revived his flagging spirits as fond memories sprang to mind. He was mildly disappointed that the room was empty, but he knew that he was relying heavily upon fate, so he resolved himself to be patient. Hour after hour he repeated his efforts, he had a thrill when a first-year had espied him and had revelled in the adrenaline rush; so long since he had felt alive.

Just when he thought that he had missed his chance and was withdrawing from the fire he saw Harry and his friends. His heart leapt and he plunged back into the fire to hear Hermione's surprised squeal. He had studied Harry closely as they talked about the terrible things that were happening both in school and out. He noted that some of the youthfulness had gone to be replaced with some simmering wrath at the futility and unfairness of it all. He had thought to be inspiring and supportive, but he found that the longer they had talked the more unsettled and confined he, himself, became. Frustration had flared viciously through him when his suggestion to join them had been doused so emphatically. His joy had withered.

He couldn't contain the bitterness that was rising up like burning bile, and he had said something regrettable to Harry. He should not have compared the boy to his father, times were so different and James had not had the same terror looming over him. Angry and ashamed he had made his excuses, cutting Harry short and leaving his Godson bewildered and worried. Still kneeling before the now empty fireplace he had cursed himself for being too brash, and immature; for thinking that he could have helped.

The house creaked around him, a slow, mocking sigh, here he was to stay, no escape, no hope. The very room seemed to press in on him; the sheer weight of the house crushed him into the rug. How he hated! How he seethed with rage! Trapped and down at heel; no better than a guard dog. He knew a way to make it stop.

Standing, he made his way to the corner and the drinks cabinet. It was just this once, just to calm him, as there was little point in allowing this state of affairs to grind him down. He poured himself a healthy measure and sat down on the leather chair.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six.

Moody watched in horrid fascination as Mundungus Fletcher cleaned out the blackened remains from his pipe. It wasn't so much the fierce concentration on the man's face, or the fact that he was idly flicking the charred debris onto the clean kitchen floor that held his attention so raptly. No, it was his method of excavating the remains.

"For Merlin's sake," Moody bellowed when he could stand it no longer. "Use Evanesco rather than the wand tip!"

Mundungus jumped, and then slowly lowered his wand and pipe. "Yeah, course!" he said apologetically. "Sort of a 'abit is that."

Moody sneered and shook his head. He had known Mundungus for longer than he cared; arrested him a fair few times and turned a blind eye when necessary. He was one of those people that you valued, but disliked. Moody saw him sheepishly cast the spell over the bowl and then slip the pipe inside his voluminous robes.

"Best clean it up off the floor too, before Molly sees."

Mundungus paled and a look of panic flittered across his face. "Oh," he said nervously. "She ain't 'ere is 'er?"

Moody nodded grimly and suppressed a grin as the wizard hastily removed all signs of his bad habit before Molly and her wrath descended.

"Well," Mundungus said jovially, "there's no real need for me to be 'ere. Done me bit as it were; told ya about 'Arry an' his plans to teach defence to the other kiddies." The wizard stood and stretched. "Really should be goin'; got things to do an' people to meet."

"I'll do yer a favour an' not ask," said Moody darkly

"Yeah." He laughed nervously and sidled past Moody towards the door.

Moody sighed as the door clicked shut behind the retreating wizard. He understood and agreed with what Potter was doing, he applauded the boy's efforts, but he knew that the decision would make it dangerous for him, his fellow students and Dumbledore. He was frustrated and angry that every step was a hardship and led them deeper into uncertainty. He had made little headway in the search for Ophelia, and the information that he had unearthed was confusing, contradictory and chilling. He would meet with his Muggle friend in the week, and Smith was due to see him soon; he would have to be content to wait. Waiting was a game that he had never liked playing; he could not shift the idea that while they twiddled their thumbs Voldemort was a frenzy of vicious activity.

---X---

The days passed quietly enough, and it was with some relish that he made his way to his meet his Muggle friend. The pub was small and nestled in a row of terraced housing, and was aptly named The Robert Peel. He had failed to grasp the humour until his friend had given him a brief history of the Police force. It had been patronised by the local constabulary and retired police officers for as long as anyone could remember.

A few elderly men played dominoes, and out of instinct glanced up as he entered the lounge; he nodded and they nodded back, professionals recognising and acknowledging each other. The landlady gave him a shrewd look and then continued polishing the pint glasses. Moody glanced round and saw his friend sitting in the far corner from where he could see who entered without it being obvious or awkward. Their acquaintance had started on very shaky ground when as young cadets in their professions they had stumbled across each other as they tried to apprehend the same criminal. It would have been an easy matter to have Obliviated the young police officer and take the wizard without fuss, but he had shown a remarkable resistance to the charm.

Confused and hassled Moody had resorted to reason, and as the curses flew overhead the young officer had agreed; Moody would take the criminal. Out of courtesy Moody had tracked down the young man after the wizard's trial and informed him of the result. The Muggle had seemed appreciative of Moody's efforts, and a tentative friendship had developed as they worked together in similar situations where the crimes of a wizard impacted upon the Muggle world.

"Good day," said Chief Inspector Bailey amiably.

"Good day," replied Moody.

"Did you perhaps know of the trouble that this simple favour of yours would cause?" Bailey asked with a smile.

"I had an inklin' that it wouldn' be easy."

The man chuckled and shook his head. "It has been quite challenging–and quite time consuming."

"Aye well," mumbled Moody apologetically. "It had to be done."

"Oh, no matter," he responded soothingly. "I got some of the new recruits on the case, gave them some hands-on experience in this kind of investigation, and I can say that it has honed their skills admirably." He lifted up an A4 brown envelop and placed it on the table. "There is quite a lot of information on her, but it really suggests very little about her. There are a few conclusions that can be drawn from the file, but I wouldn't risk basing any opinion of her on it." He inhaled slowly and he leant forwards, his brown eyes radiating concern. "I will say that my instinct tells me to be careful, but open-minded."

"As have quite a few before yer," he grumbled.

"Ah," Bailey said softly, with a smile. "Preaching to the choir?"

"Not so much the choir as the preacher," said Moody with a chuckle. "The thing is," he continued soberly, "that I'm beginnin' to wonder meself."

Moody had left Bailey sitting in the pub, his mind swirling and clashing as he pondered Ophelia. He knew where he would go next, the only logical place after reading the file.

---X---

Smethwyck had plummeted from the near pinnacle of Wizarding society to its pits. Rumours had eroded his character and a wayward son had caused his fortune to bleed away drip by drip until he had been forced to consider his son or his fortune. He had sealed his doom after excising the parasite rather than face pauperism. The decision had not been favourable met by his son, and the boy had divulged secrets to the Aurors and the press that, although, never proven had nonetheless damaged him irreparably. He had quickly and quietly departed the Wizarding world and was reported to have settled in Italy, but no one had seen fit to confirm his location. Eventually the press' interest was diverted elsewhere and Walter Smethwyck slipped from people's minds and memories. And now, after decades and a few frantic months of searching and looking under rocks on Smith's part, he was once more in a certain person's mind.

Smith glanced at the terraced houses lining the streets like glowering sentries, and tried to discern in the weak light a house number on the peeling doors. His breath misted in the cold air and the pavement was slick with a thin layer of ice. In the narrow strip of sky above the rooftops the clouds roiled threateningly, and a chill wind whistled past the chimney pots. Starlings chattered from their perches on the TV aerials and the phone lines, and early morning traffic rumbled past the junction behind him. Save for those sounds the street was dead. The clouds reflected themselves in the windscreens of the parked cars and oily puddles gathered in the gutter, oddly attractive against the grey tarmac and pavestones. A cat paused in its fastidious ear washing to stare at him from its precarious position on a windowsill, and a scrawny dog sniffed at his ankles before a gentle leg swipe encouraged it to move on.

He eventually found a tarnished metal door number, and determined that the house he sought was five houses down, past an alleyway leading to the backs of the houses. A sweet, sickly, stench emanated from the alley, and he saw rubbish bags piled upon each other, their contents spilling obscenely from pest incurred rips in the black plastic.

The door before him was equally as tatty, and by the looks of it a dog had repeatedly scratched at it. He casually slipped his hand into a breast pocket and removed his wand to cast a quick series of charms over the door. He frowned and noted with some alarm that the property was not warded. Had Smethwyck changed addresses? Ignoring the weight in his gut he rapped sharply against the door. No answer. He thumped a little louder, conscious of arousing the neighbour's suspicions; again no answer. He cast another charm and the door clicked open; he slipped into the shadowed room and pushed the door closed softly. Another smell hit him, stale alcohol and tobacco. The living room had a small coffee table, strewn with magazines, letters and other bits and pieces, and two ripped and stained arm chairs. A sideboard dominated the opposite wall and it was also covered in letters and books and bits of paper. The walls were bare plaster streaked with dirt and from the ceiling an exposed light bulb dangled pathetically. The carpet felt sticky beneath his feet and the floorboards peeked through bare patches in the dingy fabric.

He moved through an archway into a small area at the bottom of the stairs and peered into another room, a dining room of sorts, and beyond that he could see a portion of the kitchen. He took to the stairs and carefully walked up the steep narrow staircase. Bedrooms were to his left and right, and he could hear snores coming from the one on his left. He carefully pushed open the door and stepped into the room. It was dark, due to heavy thick curtains, and shadowed objects lurked in every corner. On the bed lay a man wrapped in twisted bed linen and curled into a tight ball, a few cans rested alongside him, and on a bedside table lay a collection of empty bottles.

Smith grimaced and stepped between the detritus on the floor and approached the bed. While the occupant was insensate he looked at the flushed face. The hair was thinner and grey, the face slightly fatter with a reddened and enlarged nose and a scraggly beard, but Smith recognised Smethwyck slumbering with mouth agape and eyelids only half closed. He cast a simple and important Summoning Charm, and moved to the shadows beside the large window. He grinned mirthlessly to himself and placed a full body bind on the sleeping wizard. The arms and legs stiffened and straightened, and once the hung-over man began to realise that something was happening, Smith charmed the curtains open.

---X---

Moody ground his teeth together and flexed his fingers around his hip flask; he opened his mouth to speak and then quickly decided to take a deep drink from the silver flask. He pulled a face as the whiskey burned a path to his stomach, and then relaxed when a warm wave rolled out from his gullet across his chest. He inhaled slowly and slipped the flask somewhere within his robes. Dumbledore had told him of his doubts based on what Sirius had divulged and Minerva disclosed about the language of violets.

"Well now," he finally ground out, "that does change things a bit; don't it?" His scowl deepened when Dumbledore merely nodded sanguinely while biting into his shortbread. "What had you in mind when you first realised that she was still alive?"

"I must confess," Dumbledore said slowly while wiping sugary crumbs from his beard, "that I had hoped she was distancing herself from her peers and certain principles; that she would, like Sirius, choose to walk another path." He sighed gently and tapped a fingernail against the delicate handle on his bone china cup.

"Well she bloody well didn't, did she?"

Dumbledore glanced up sharply, and then smiled depreciatively. "I went over her school reports; in fact I've learnt more about her in these last few days than I ever did while she was a student, and have noticed a few interesting facts. She was a fairly unremarkable student, neither the top nor the bottom of her class, and yet the curses she used, with a great degree of finesse, were advanced and well beyond a student of her usually observed ability. Also there were a number of unresolved incidents against certain Slytherins involving rather obscure hexes and rare potions; I remember Horace being rather put out that he couldn't invite the perpetrator to join his club." He took another bite from the crumbly, golden biscuit and watched Moody over the rim of his glasses.

"The fact is we don't know much about her, and what we do know isn't encouragin'," Moody said gloomily. "And now we don't know whether or not she was usin' Sirius as we hoped he would use her."

"Quite so, and Severus' account of her does lead us to the uncomfortable conclusion that she was a devout and loving follower of Tom."

Moody frowned and carefully studied Dumbledore. "You sound unconvinced?"

"Let's just say that until we have her, and restored her memories to her, I will be happy to give her the benefit of the doubt, however," he inserted quickly before his friend could scold him, "I will take every precaution should my generosity be misplaced."

Moody relaxed and nodded approvingly. "Are ye still thinking of havin' Lupin oversee the procedure?"

"Yes, although now he will have assistance. I was hoping that you would be there to notice any, as you said, wrongness."

"My pleasure, Dumbledore," he said cheerfully. "What other precautions are you considering?"

"She left the Wizarding world assured of Severus' loyalty to Voldemort; I wish that belief to remain unchanged for the time being. I have been considering allowing her to escape from our clutches and return to those with whom she felt safe; if her relationship with Tom should rekindle then she may be a source of information."

"Well, I'll give Snape this; he's a better spy than Sirius Black, if anyone can get information out of someone it's him."

"Precisely, Alastor."

"You know that I don't like any of this?"

"I know, Alastor, that is why I have decided to let you handle the security arrangements. You may do whatever you consider necessary to keep the Order safe and secure. I will be calling a meeting in a few days for those who will be made aware of our intentions regarding Ophelia Black; I will expect your requirements to be made known then."

Moody nodded, his mind already awhirl with protocols and security charms, and bade Dumbledore a distracted goodbye, barely hearing the old man's hearty chuckle before he Disapparated.

---X---

"Arrgh! Bastard!" He screamed as the counter-curse freed him. He wrenched his body to the side, flinging an arm over his tortured eyes and trying to crawl away. His breathing was heavy from his futile struggling against the curse, and the bed squeaked and groaned under his quaking body. Smith stood to the side of the window; lost in the glare. When Smethwyck slowly turned to face him he was just another indistinguishable shape in the shadows. Still shielding his sensitive eyes Smethwyck slowly shifted up the bed against the headrest.

"Who are you?" He asked gruffly, while peering into the shadowed corner.

"Now Walter that don't really matter, does it?"

At the mention of his long abandoned name Smethwyck's face fell and his lips began to tremble. He glanced slyly over towards the bedside table, and then gave a shaky laugh. "Well that changes things a bit." He slowly lowered his hand and moved to free his legs from the twisted sheets; some purpose directing his moves. "You must be surprised to see me of all people living in this Muggle mire?" He chuckled and slowly slid his feet to the edge of the bed next to the bedside table; from the shadows Smith grinned darkly at the wizard's futile furtiveness. "Have you come to gloat? You must have because I have nothing left for you to take; my pride has long gone, and my dignity slipped away drip by drip and drop by drop." He laughed again and waved a pale hand towards the collection of bottles. "I must say that after all these years, well decades really," he continued breathlessly, "I'm surprised that anyone would still be interested in me." His feet dropped onto the carpet and he placed his hands on the edge of the worn mattress. "Tell me what business you have with me and have done with it." One hand came to rest on his thigh while the other remained hidden from view; the fingers no doubt reaching for what he had secreted there.

In the shadows Smith's smile became more predatory and he threw the discovered wand onto the bed. Smethwyck followed it with his eyes and a frantic hand slipped between the mattress and the bedside cabinet, for a second his face was a twisted, desperate rictus before crumbling into fear and grief. Sobbing he slid from the bed into a heap on the floor and slowly rocked himself. "Haven't I suffered enough? Haven't I lost enough?"

"You have one more thing to give Walter, and then I'll leave you to your life."

"I have nothing," he wailed.

"Nothing about Sigmund Norwood?" Smith queried mildly.

"That treacherous turncoat!" he spat viciously, glaring up at Smith with venomous eyes before returning to his sniffling. "He did this to me!" he sobbed out. "And do you know what I find intolerable? That the fool didn't even realise what he'd done! He said the wrong thing to the right wizard and just like that I'm quietly expelled from the Wizengamot and my life begins its rapid decline."

"We have reason to believe that Norwood may have been involved in some less than legal activities whilst employed as an Auror," Smith spoke carefully after he had gathered his thoughts, almost cajolingly. "Activities that, should they be proven, would greatly damage Norwood's reputation."

Smethwyck stopped sniffling and rocking as the remains of his mind processed Smith's words. "Really?" he asked hopefully.

Half an hour, and a few charms, later enough of the living room had been cleaned for Smith to feel comfortable sitting in the dingy, decrepit room. A steaming cup of strong coffee rested, ignored, on the table, while Smethwyck casually sipped his own. The curtains were closed and Smith had permitted no light, his face remained shadowed and inscrutable. Disappointment after disappointment had twisted Smethwyck's mind and drink had corrupted the rest. Although Smethwyck still had his smooth voice and sharp wit he had deteriorated into a spiteful child.

"You were saying that dear Sigmund is in some kind of trouble?"

"Yes," Smith lied smoothly. "As you may be aware Madam Amelia Bones became the head of Magical Law Enforcement and has recently called for all unrolled scrolls to be re-evaluated, and in the course of following her directives we have come to a disturbing conclusion."

"Yes?" he hissed eagerly, his eyes glittering with glee.

"It seems that Norwood was abusing his position as head of the Elite Aurors," he saw Smethwyck's face spilt into a feral grin, and for a moment he feared he had gone too far, "and used dubious techniques to acquire information."

"Yes! Oh yes!" Smethwyck hissed triumphantly. "He had the backing of the public back then didn't he? A hero wasn't he? But now? What now?" Hot coffee splashed over the side of the mug and over his fingers, but in his glee the pain failed to register. "I was cast aside because I had stepped on more toes to do what was right, to do what was needed," he spoke quickly and breathlessly, "but he was lifted up as the hero renegade doing a tough job in a tough time."

Smith kept quiet and allowed Smethwyck's twisted recollections to fuel his fervour. He had no doubt that eventually Smethwyck would divulge everything as he strove to bring down the man he deemed responsible for his own downfall and pitiful existence.

"I made it possible for him; me! I saw him for what he was, a small-minded thug with a natural talent for intimidation, and I showed him his path, his vocation! Without me he would have stayed another unremarkable Auror and died at the hands of an equally unremarkable Dark wizard. Oh, I know what you're thinking! He faced Grindelwald, stared the mad bastard in the face and laughed. Bah! It was absolute terror, not fearlessness! Norwood was a fraud!" His explosive rant ended in a coughing fit, and he hastily put the coffee mug on the table to grab a handkerchief and cram it against his mouth. "Sorry," he mumbled, wiping something dark from the corner of his mouth. "Not been well lately."

"The evidence we have so far is purely conjectural and …"

"Oh yes!" he laughed merrily. "Don't think I was daft enough to leave stuff just lying around ready to be found, and no need to look so dejected, my friend, what you seek is nice and safe." A shrewd gleam came into his bloodshot eyes and he smiled slowly. "Not so daft to just give it to you either."

"Of course," Smith responded courteously, "certain provisions can be made in payment for the information provided by any civic-minded individual."

Smethwyck's smile faltered and he studied Smith carefully. After a few moments he began to talk, softly and surely, spilling his secrets and regrets.

The new department for the Elite Aurors had been legitimately created by a colleague of Smethwyck's and registered with the archive five days before the unfortunate wizard's murder. In the ensuing panic and confusion the department had been untended and forgotten. Some months later and Sigmund Norwood was selected to lead the neglected department and Smethwyck had seen his opportunity. He re-registered the new department under a new name without dissolving the existing one and thus he had created a place to store information. Only those individuals aware of the forgotten department would ever think of looking for information within it, and if the scrolls were never rolled then they would never go to the archive; the scrolls, for all intents and purposes, just disappeared. Smith was impressed despite his disgust, and resolved himself to accept that the pathetic wizard in front of him had at one time being a great strategist and formidable thinker. No amount of searching would have yielded the scrolls; it was difficult at the best of times to get unrolled scrolls from a department much less one that technically did not exist. It was the perfect hiding place; a place where no one would even think to look.

"When Norwood investigated a certain someone, that we didn't want others to know about, he would leave the scroll unrolled and divert it to the dummy departmental archive, and there it would stay unless we had need of it." He smiled dreamily and rested his head against the back of his chair. "It was elegant." He sighed happily and closed his eyes. "We gathered information and siphoned off the more interesting snippets for our own purposes." His eyes snapped open and he shuddered violently. "And then it started to go wrong. Norwood began to get greedy. He was no longer content with small changes here and there; he wanted to sink to blackmail. No longer were we influencing policy making and plucking Ministerial strings, now we were mere thieves. To make matters worse he began to include his friends in the arrangement, fellow Elite Aurors to benefit financially from my beautiful scheme. I found out about it when that Bones woman complained about mismanaging timesheets and I realised that he was taking them on certain investigations with him." He sighed wearily and shook his head.

"We keep referring to certain investigations; could we be more specific? Unless we find a suitably injured party then the case may be dismissed as not being in the public interests."

"Of course," Smethwyck agreed politely, and then furrowed his brow in thought.

"A few already have made claims against Norwood personally," he offered suggestively, "Madam Malkim and Narcissa Malfoy for instance."

"Malfoy?"

"Yes, Narcissa Malfoy on behalf of her cousin Ophelia Black."

"No, we never went after either the Blacks or the Malfoys, any interaction between those families and the Ministry was in a purely official capacity; even Norwood wouldn't have been foolish enough to attempt his little trick against the likes of them."

Smith felt his stomach churn unpleasantly as his hopes guttered and died. His last link in the chain had proven weak and he was left floundering once more. But one little hope fluttered up from the ashes like an errant cinder. "He may have accumulated information about them nonetheless?"

"I dare say he did, I know he was busy for someone else towards the end."

"What do you mean?"

"I washed my hands of it and of him, he didn't have the wit to carry it on and yet he succeeded, I can only conclude that he found another brain to suffer his brawn."

Inwardly Smith groaned, yet another thread, but outwardly he merely looked displeased. Smethwyck must have seen the tension in his shoulders because he suddenly licked his lips nervously and fidgeted with the handkerchief in his hand.

"I asked around at the time, out of mild personal curiosity you understand, and believe that one of the Elite Aurors he invited to join him finally took over; a young but fairly decent Auror by the name of Brian Topliss."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven.

A fine drizzle bullied by a strong wind speckled his spectacles with distorting moisture and stung the exposed skin on his cheek and forehead. His beard glistened with ensnared droplets. He flicked up the collar on his raincoat, pulled down the brim of his fedora, and glanced along the street for his rendezvous—a glass fronted building with Milly's Café glued on the window in peeling letters. He had agreed to meet Moody there, a greasy spoon in a neglected part of Whitehaven. Wind-tossed plastic bags twirled and skittered down the pavement, while sodden newspapers floundered weakly in the flooded gutter. A stray dog snatched a morsel of soggy food from a few fat pigeons, and starlings chattered shrilly as they pecked at some spilt chips, littering the pavement.

Most of the buildings were industrial and derelict with smashed out windows and boarded up doorways surrounded by twisted and rusted fences. Milly's café and the newsagents next to it with its peeling paint and dull security glass seemed to be the only buildings in use. Here, was a part of the city dying slowly, the industry already dead and the dilapidated housing erected during its heyday choking as vitality was drawn into the sleeker and healthier parts of the city. This place was home for those too weak, too poor or too stubborn to leave, the opportunistic scavenger and the ever vigilant carrion eater. The place made him uncomfortable, so different from his school, bustling and throbbing with frenetic and palpable energy; this was a place to die.

Milly's café, however, lifted his spirits and shattered his vision of a depressed suburb in its dying throes. The smell of bacon and fresh coffee hit his nose, ridding him of the stench of urine soaked doorways, and each surface glistened with a fastidious cleanliness to sting his eyes after the washed out greys and browns of the outside. He quickly removed his hat and flashed a smile at the wizened and apron clad lady behind the counter. He glanced around the long rectangular room and saw a familiar grizzled face in the far corner watching him with a piercing blue eye and a ragged fringe of grey hair covering a black eye-patch.

Moody fidgeted and held a menu with the resolve and fervour a knight would clutch his shield. Dumbledore made his way past the sparkling chairs and pristine tables, past the young mother feeding a baby in a high chair, who was too busy trying to grab the spoon to eat. Past an elderly woman in a tweed coat and paisley headscarf, sipping tea, holding her handbag on her lap, and staring into times gone by. A young toddler watched his progress from the opposite side of the long room, but his awed study was interrupted by his mother's assurances that staring was impolite, whether it was at Gandalf or not. He smiled and winked over at the little boy with butter and toast crumbs clinging to his chin and cheek, and gave his blushing mother a respectful and appreciative nod.

"Thank Merlin you're here;" whispered Moody. "I almost had to order somethin'."

Dumbledore chuckled and plucked the torturous list of foods and drinks from his friend's fingers. "I think that the very worst thing that could happen here is a bout of indigestion from overindulgence." He subjected the menu to a thorough perusal until a shadow fell across the table and a young woman with short black hair and a collection of rings along the shell of her ear politely asked them if they were ready to order. Dumbledore smiled and ordered a pot of tea for two and a teacake.

A radio played somewhere just out of view and faint strains of gentle music could be heard above the clatter of cutlery, the chink of crockery and the merry gurgles of children. Dumbledore relaxed into the sounds, and thanked the waitress as she placed his order on the table. Once she had returned to the counter, Moody lifted a portfolio file from beneath the table and slid it across to him and some of his tension returned; not the kind that had weighted him down, but the thrilling sensation one has before embarking on a challenge.

"Your friend discovered all this in a few weeks?"

"I'll say one thing for the Muggles; they know how to keep track of people."

"Remarkable." Dumbledore opened up the file and quickly scanned the first page. "I see that she was given the name Veronica Speedwell, approximate age as sixteen, height, weight, et cetera. Her details were put onto the missing persons database but it yielded nothing."

"Hardly surprisin'," Moody mumbled tetchily. "No one actually knew her, and all those who did thought she was dead." His friend, armed with significant resources, had worked wonders on the computer, pulling up information about her employment history, her places of residence and the benefits she had claimed since coming of age in the Muggle world. A few days later and every scrap of information held on a computer and attached to a phone line had been siphoned and printed off, medical history, police records and her file with the social services. On a collection of pages he had the map of her life.

Dumbledore traced a finger down a list of addresses and frowned. "She didn't seem to settle well."

"I think," Moody responded neutrally, "that she didn't have any choice in that. It appears that several neighbours made complaints about her, and those responsible for her housing moved her to other areas."

"She was a troublemaker?"

"No," Moody shook his head and sighed softly. "Accordin' to the Housin' Offices she was a model tenant. It seems that when her neighbours discovered that she had spent some time in a mental hospital they panicked and reported her over the smallest infraction."

Due to her constant relocation her employment record was just as erratic, and consisted mainly of light industrial work and waiting tables. He remembered her head of house extolling her intellect, and although the Muggle examinations she had undertaken had reflected her keen mind she had been unable to make much of it. She had no police record, as such, other than a cautioning several years ago following an assault on a hiker. On reflection, a lonely woman living a life far short of the one she was inherently entitled to. He scratched the side of his nose and sucked thoughtfully on his teeth; would the wonders of the Wizarding world justify plucking her from such an ordinary and safe life, and would they outweigh the horrors of it.

Dumbledore flicked over several more pages and studied her medical history with solemnity. A total of five months spent in hospital recovering from the injuries supposedly sustained in the train accident, with an additional three months as an outpatient receiving physiotherapy. Shortly afterwards she was readmitted as an outpatient to the psychiatric department, and thus began a spiral leading to her interment at a secure facility in Cumbria. He frowned and gently shook his head; there was no information regarding her stay in the institute, but he knew that such places were often a hunting ground for those Dementors that had slipped through Ministry control. He shuddered and swallowed rising bile at the thought of a child dealing with the horrors they inspired. His only hope was that her charm-addled mind was no lure to them in a place where they could glut themselves on the deranged.

Moody poured himself a cup of tea and ripped open two sachets of sugar. He stirred the sweet mixture while casting his trained eye over the café and its occupants. He wished that he could have charmed his magical eye invisible; the eye-patch was uncomfortable, but as the thing had a tendency to fall out he opted that while in the Muggle world some discomfort was preferable to hunting on hands and knees for something he could not see.

The baby had finished her yoghurt and was resisting with surprising strength and determination her mother's attempts to clean the excess from her face. The old lady still sat facing the window, and the other mother was crouched in front of her toddler buttoning his coat and muttering softly to him, his pink face a picture of rapt and devoted attention beneath his blue bobble hat. Since his release from his wretched trunk Moody allowed himself to relax, lulled by the quiet and simple sounds of life.

"Have you been to her current address?" asked Dumbledore.

"Yes, but just to look." He watched Dumbledore take a bite from his teacake, butter glistened on his top lip and moustache. "It's a flat not far from here. An elderly woman lives in the downstairs flat and Ophelia has the upstairs one. There are faint traces of structured magic around the property, but nothin' distinguishable as a specific charm. I cast a Location Charm and the flat was empty."

Dumbledore wiped his mouth on a napkin and took a sip of tea. "Do you think that she's utilising immature wandless magic?"

"Yes, it has that feel."

"Astounding!" He popped the last of the teacake in his mouth and wiped crumbs from his fingers on a paper napkin. "Shall we go take a look?"

Dumbledore paid for his breakfast at the counter and joined Moody outside the door. The walk was brisk and dismal as the rain gathered momentum and fell in large fat droplets. Soon, the large warehouses gave way to row upon row of terraced housing before they petered out into collections of shops and semi-detached houses and grand aloof detached houses. The streets became cleaner, broader and traffic rumbled along them with increasing frequency.

They negotiated the steady stream of bustling shoppers, Moody leading him towards the end of the high street and into one of the side streets branching from the arterial main road. They walked past a cluster of bungalows with thick white handrails running along their paths to the pristine white doors, and past an infant's school where young children squealed and played in the concrete playground. Eventually they reached a series of houses split into two flats, and Moody paused at the gate of an innocuous brown, bricked building.

Dumbledore could feel tendrils of magic flickering over his exposed skin and burrowing into his beard so gently that it could be dismissed as the wind. He glanced up at the white voile hanging in the windows, and then at the netting in the downstairs windows, seeing a flicker of movement from within.

"Have you spoken with the neighbour?"

"No, but she saw me earlier."

Dumbledore saw the netting twitch ever so slightly and reached over to lift the catch on the gate. Moody followed him up the path and into a narrow passageway from the front garden to the back and between the concrete sheds and the doors to the flats. Dumbledore rapped his knuckles against the blue door to the upstairs flat and waited for the neighbour's door to open.

"What do you want?" The neighbour, a petite woman with tightly curled grey hair and a powdery wrinkled face, stepped from her doorway, wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders and glared at them suspiciously. "I saw you snooping around earlier." She indicated Moody with a dignified nod of the head and sniffed disdainfully. "If you're here to cause trouble for her then you can go to the council and they can deal with you. People like you have given her enough of a hard time in the past." She stretched to her full height and glared up at Dumbledore, unimpressed as he towered over her. "I'm not standing for it; pestering her and whatnot. It shouldn't be allowed, you…" she paused in mid flow as Dumbledore held up his hands.

"My dear lady," he affirmed gently, "we're not here to cause trouble, quite the contrary in fact."

"How's that then?"

"It's quite difficult to explain," he muttered softly. "It seems that I may have once been her Headmaster, and when I came across her picture, the face of a young woman I had thought dead, it inspired me to find her." He reached into his jacket and withdrew two folded pictures, one was a copy of Ophelia's self portrait and the other was an old photograph of Ophelia with her cousins. The woman took them with deep distrust etched into her features and squinted at the images. "I came here to determine if she is the little girl we lost some twenty years ago before I involved her family." As he spoke and her eyes were focused on the pictures he pulled out his wand and cast the Confundus charm.

---X---

Moody and Dumbledore sat together on the floral patterned sofa while Mrs Mathieson busied herself with the tea things. After a few moments the table was laden with cups, saucers and biscuits. She smiled at the arrangement and with a soft sigh, muttered about the milk jug and rapidly disappeared into the kitchen.

"Overdid the Confundus a bit, didn't we?" Moody muttered without rancour. "This rate she'll be too busy playin' the hostess to answer any questions."

"Some things," Dumbledore countered calmly, "cannot be rushed."

Moody was about to retort when the door into the sitting room opened and the elderly lady backed into the room.

"I must say," she began breathlessly, while pouring the tea, "that I have often hoped that someday, someone would come forward and claim her. She's such a lovely girl," her brow furrowed and her wrinkled lips worked mutely.

"But she has a few faults?" Dumbledore supplied helpfully and without accusation.

She smiled gratefully and her shoulders slumped with relief. "Yes," she said simply and handed him his tea. "She has a bad reputation around here; undeserved," she added quickly and fiercely, fixing them both with a glare daring them to contradict her.

"I'm sure that that is the case," Dumbledore said encouragingly.

She nodded once and filled a second cup. "Of course she don't help herself," she admitted after some thought while pouring milk into her tea. "She don't make friends; that's not to say she's unfriendly," once again her brow wrinkled, "she's willing enough to help if you ask for it but she don't offer much of herself."

Mrs Mathieson settled herself in her chair and took a sip of tea, seemingly unaware of the tension coiling within her guests. "She is very private, but comes out when she's needed; not long ago she helped me with some nuisance when all the council would do was say that they'd look into it. Veronica went out and well," she shrugged nonchalantly, "that was that!" She paused to sip again and nibble the edge of a biscuit. "I don't know what I would have done all these years without her," she mumbled softly, her eyes focused on some distant and troubling time. "Yes," she added quietly. "She's a loyal and caring girl, but," she swallowed and her lips twitched. "She sometimes gives me the idea that the whole of my life with all its woes has been nothing compared to hers and her suffering." She hastily gulped a mouthful of tea, the saucer quivered in her trembling hand. The crockery grated together and she was obliged to lower the cup and saucer onto her lap. She turned her head and looked into Dumbledore's eyes, her face a picture of fearful and desperate concern. "You will look after her, won't you? You won't let whatever haunts her get her, will you?"

Dumbledore felt his heart clench and his breath caught in his throat. For the first time in quite a while, he was speechless; Dark Lords, Ministerial officials and the Minister of Magic had failed to do what this generous lady had done. She had slipped under his armour, past his reasoning and strategy and crushed his heart and resolve. In that moment he was tempted to stand and leave; to lose this advantage to maintain some sense that in a terrified world the right thing could still be done as a matter of choice. He would have done it, had not the pale face of an equally haunted boy drifted into his thoughts; it was a sad fact that in this conflict no one was free to be protected from their ghosts until the battle was over.

"Where is Miss Speedwell at the moment?" Dumbledore asked gently.

She felt the ridiculous urge to refuse to answer, but quickly smothered it. These two kind gentlemen were here to help Veronica; it was so wonderfully obvious.

"She's on holiday," she said brightly. "She goes away once a year; I think that she's looking for her past, the poor dear." She lowered her cup and stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. "I have a postcard somewhere." She bustled off and disappeared through the door; they could hear her muttering to herself from the hallway.

"This has to be done," Moody said softly. Beside him Dumbledore sagged and slowly placed his untouched tea on the table.

"I know," he replied firmly.

"Here it is," she cried out triumphantly and padded over to them, offering them the postcard with a beaming smile.

"Ah!" Dumbledore exclaimed appreciatively, removing the card from the woman's fingers. He read the card dispassionately; there was no return address and the picture on the front, a glorious sunset reflected in a lake, was remarkably unspecific. He checked the postmark on the stamp and noted that it was from the northwest, the Peak District, and that it had been posted three days ago. "Do you happen to know where she is staying?"

He watched with some concern as her features hardened and her frame stiffened, and then the charm took over once more and she relaxed into it. "She's staying in a rented cottage in Kendall," she said quickly. "I think the address is in my notebook; she always tells me where she's going in case I need her." She balanced the cup and saucer on the chair arm and moved to fetch the address book.

"And when will she return here?" Dumbledore asked quietly, watching her rummage through her handbag, and trying to ignore the uneasiness in his stomach.

"Oh, not till the end of next week," she said, consolingly, unaware that they would not be waiting. "Ah, here it is!" She pushed her glasses further up her nose and carefully opened the small book, carefully turning the small pages. "Number 12, Holbourne Lane."

---X---

Dumbledore cleaned and banished the tea things back to their places while the old lady slept in her chair. Moody replaced the postcard amongst the rest of the post on the small table in the hallway and slid the address book in amongst the other objects within the woman's purse.

Dumbledore had cast the Obliviate curse as soon as she divulged Ophelia Black's location, and negated any inquiries by using a Soporific charm to encourage her to nap in her chair. When she woke they would be gone and she would have no recollection of her unwitting betrayal. They gave the room one last look and saw themselves out.

Dumbledore slowed his pace when he felt a hand grab his elbow and turned enquiringly to the wizard next to him.

"I'll go and check out the cottage; if it's secluded enough we could do it there."

Dumbledore nodded and turned his head slightly to avoid the worst of the rain. "It would nullify some of the problems if it could be so." Dumbledore tapped Moody lightly on the arm and pointed to a shadowed gap leading to a narrow footpath. They crossed the road and eased their way past drooping, waterlogged nettles and onto the path. Concealed by large overhanging trees and burgeoning shrubs they Disapparated back to Grimmauld Place and began to plan.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight.

He was surprised that Granger and Weasley had not scurried off after their departed friend; instead they shared a dark look and muttered together. Granger looked distressed and Weasley flashed him a bitter look before they left the classroom. A few Slytherins loitered, chatting, before a scowl prompted them to also pack away their things and leave for lunch. Snape heard Draco Malfoy's voice from the hallway mutter something about Potter's Invigoration Draught; his milling followers laughed obligingly. Snape flicked his wand and the gathered phials on his desk smartly lined themselves up, tinkling merrily and glinting in the meagre sunlight.

He pulled out a large ledger from his desk drawer and placed it carefully in its customary place before him. He stared at it for a few moments, thoughtfully drumming his fingers on its abused spine and running his other hand over the rough leather cover. His mind was pulled back twenty years to another time when he had banished a worthless potion; and although he had been generous and sympathetic with the unsuccessful brewer, he had still been on the receiving end of a venomous glare equal to that of Potter's.

---X---

He had been perturbed to see a young girl in Malfoy's basement, and equally annoyed that she was messing with what he had grown to consider _his_ potion equipment and supplies. He had intended to interpose and end her little game when something about her movements caught his eye, the gentle and precise motions as she chopped, diced and measured the ingredients and the graceful way she added them to the cauldron. She had dispensed with the chandelier and instead had placed three lamps on the table, one to each side and one across from her, a perfect arrangement to prevent her shadow falling across her workspace. The cauldron was slightly to her left so she could easily and efficiently drop ingredients into it without fear of knocking it, and his lips quirked at the sight of a single burner camping stove underneath it.

Gathering up his cloak, so as the hem would not drag against the stone floor, he descended the last few steps, utilising the shadows to sneak closer to the girl and the table where she worked so diligently. A variety of ingredients lay neatly ordered on the desk, each within easy reach and he noted with some interest that she had no book to follow. Her thin, pale face was a picture of contentment as her fingers danced assuredly over the prepared materials and her cauldron. He recognised her immediately as Narcissa Black's younger cousin from his earlier visits to Malfoy Manor as his friend's guest, but this was the first time he had been this close to her, the first time he had stopped to take notice of her. She was young, not yet at Hogwarts, and yet managed herself with a grace and skill that many of his fellow fourth year students had failed to acquire. He was impressed, but still annoyed at the intrusion in what he considered to be his domain; Lucius had not told him that his father allowed the girl down here.

His mind was working with her, trying to deduce the nature of the potion and his eyebrows twitched in surprise when a possibility blossomed. He idly wondered if the potion was for herself, although she seemed too young to have problems with her menses, or merely as a personal challenge. He could not fault her attempts to brew the Balancing Potion until she added a handful of finely chopped sweetflag leaves. The method required that the leaves be coarsely chopped and rinsed in pure water before being added to the cauldron. The potion had few ingredients, but they had to be prepared in a specific and detailed way as the potion was incredibly fragile at every stage and a slight error would result in total failure.

"The sweetflag must be roughly chopped and added after the cauldron has been sufficiently stirred, otherwise it will react with the yarrow and the potion will thicken."

She jolted at his voice and whipped around sharply to see him step from the shadows. She glared at him, her dark eyes flashing dangerously and her cheeks reddening with anger and embarrassment. He moved closer to the table and peered into the cauldron and saw, as expected, a honey coloured mixture speckled with green slivers of sweetflag, and rapidly acquiring the viscosity of egg custard. He prodded the congealing mass with the tip of his wand, huffed in disappointment, and then cast Evanesco. Her eyes narrowed and her expression became quite poisonous.

"The potion was worthless, I suggest next time you refer to a book before making elementary mistakes."

"Who are you?" she demanded hotly.

"I'm Severus Snape."

"Really?" Her fierce expression dissolved into one of interest and he found himself growing anxious in the unaccustomed attention.

"Up to the point that you added the sweetflag the potion was flawless," he said quickly, trying to draw her focused attention from himself and back to the potion. She blushed violently and nervously tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "Out of curiosity did you know about the proper way to prepare the sweetflag?"

"Yes." She said softly, gently tugging on the ends of her long hair and watching him intently.

"So," he asked with some confusion. "Why add it?"

Her face split into a delighted grin and she launched into a fascinating and breathless explanation. He thrummed in sympathetic resonance as they discussed a shared passion, and as the time slipped by he sloughed off his anger and forgot his wounds. The child's knowledge of potions was impressive, but she adamantly refused to share anything else with him, although she asked frequently about him and seemed quite affronted that he reciprocated her reticence. He did discover that she was visiting with her Aunt, Elladora Black, and would be staying with the Malfoys over Christmas. He had asked her if she would like to brew some potions with him, but before she could respond a noise distracted her and she turned to look at the stairs; he followed her gaze and saw Lucius Malfoy standing on the bottom step, peering distastefully into the gloom.

"I thought I'd find you here, Severus," he drawled, while fastidiously lifting his elegant verdant robes so as not to dirty them. "Father wants all the guests upstairs," he looked over at Ophelia and his grimace deepened. "I suggest that you wash for dinner and change into the robes Narcissa brought for you." The blond-haired youth strode over to the table and glanced at the gathered ingredients and the empty cauldron.

"Five more minutes please, Lucius, we were discussing Pemberton-Smythe's second law and how it …" She saw his expression and ground to a disappointed halt. "I'll go and wash." She turned off the gas to the stove and used a damp cloth to wipe the table clean; her attention to detail meant that there was very little in the way of wasted ingredients. Once everything was neatly cleaned and stowed she trudged up the stairs and exited the basement.

"Father allows her down here," Lucius said dismissively. "He likes that she's out from underfoot."

Severus watched him poke his wand at the camping stove with an expression of intense dislike twisting his features. "She may as well be a Muggle," he spat venomously. "Still, she does brew excellent potions," his mouth quirked and his eyes glittered merrily. "Her sleeping potions have allowed Narcissa and I some leisurely quality time together while she's been here," his smile widened and he winked at his friend. Snape smiled back politely, and then his grin widened when the implication struck home. Lucius chuckled and draped his arm over the younger boy's shoulders.

"Father was telling Mrs Black that he has never felt so rested; the child, Muggle brat that she is, has her charms." He laughed merrily and took a deep sip of champagne.

"Who is she?"

Lucius sighed and let his hand fall from Snape's shoulder. "She is Aunt Capella's daughter, a bastard child according to what we know, rescued by Aunt Elladora from a pack of Muggles." His lip curled back in disgust and he shook his head slowly.

"She is spoiled, damaged goods; she can barely hold a wand much less cast spells; it's a wonder that she is so adept at potion making." Lucius drained his glass and placed the flute on the workbench; turning to his friend he gripped the dark man's shoulders. "I will tell you this though," he licked his lips and swallowed— nervously, Snape thought. "Tread carefully around her, my friend."

Snape thought to laugh at the idea that he should be wary of an eight-year-old who seemed more squib than witch, but something in the fixed expression and the flash of worry in his friend's eyes stopped him.

---X---

The meal had been exquisite, although neither Snape nor Ophelia had tasted much. They surreptitiously chatted about potions and their more interesting effects around mouthfuls of duchess potatoes and tender goose with vegetables of julienne. Ophelia may have been distracted by her slice of luxury Yule log with whipped cream, but over coffee and petit-fours she came back with a vengeance. He listened to her, and found himself pondering the girl's status, who was she that a Malfoy should feel deferential to her? She was inquisitive, perceptive and possessed a sometimes vicious wit that appealed to his own dark humour. Nothing about her suggested anything disturbing; despite her awesome knowledge of potions and her keen wit, even at such a young age, she was a normal, awkward child. The dollop of cream on the tip of her nose hastily wiped away was evidence of that, and she seemed to take no offence at his chortle, even if she did blush.

Aunt Elladora had sequestered Ophelia's attentions in the early evening and Snape had sought out Lucius, concerned that his lack of attention had offended him. He was waylaid in his task by a stay in the Malfoy family library and then later by Bellatrix, who seemed to be talking to him out of politeness rather than necessity. After an hour he finally found his friend on the terrace, chatting intimately with Narcissa. Their fur coats and hats were speckled with fine snow, and their hair shone like silver in the brief moonlight. The clouds shifted and the terrace was plunged into shadow, only their outlines visible against the crisp snow backdrop. He had the impression of the shadows merging together and then caught the sound of a sigh. Knowing that he was not missed, and uncomfortable with the scene before him, Snape moved back into the house and returned to the drawing room.

A late guest had arrived and seated himself in one of the large, brown, leather chairs by the hearth. The household had gathered around him, listening with rapt attention to his tales. Abraxus Malfoy was smiling in an odd mix of apprehension and pleasure and the Blacks— Elladora, Alphard and Bellatrix, were sitting and drinking him in, lapping up every word. It wasn't until Snape moved further into the room that he saw Ophelia sitting at the man's feet with her back resting against the visitor's shins and playing with a snake. The stranger caught sight of him and smiled warmly.

"This must be the young man you were telling me about, Opella." His voice was pleasant and cultured, and his eyes were almost greedy as they looked upon him.

Ophelia grinned up at Snape, the snake coiled around her arms and hissing playfully in her ear. The others looked at him strangely, Bellatrix looked positively jealous and Abraxus' worried smile became more pronounced. Snape sensed a power shift, no longer was he merely the guest of a school friend, now he was the focus of a powerful wizard. Snape, however, felt more like a butterfly frantically fluttering its wings as a pin poised over his body, ready to fix him to a display. He was sure that this moment was one of those that Slughorn kept referring to as life-defining. Snape swallowed nervously; he was well aware who this guest was, and wondered what he could say when Ophelia rendered him speechless.

"Yes, Uncle Tom."

---X---

Snape came back to himself with a jerk; he could still remember the appalled dread that had crept over him when the realisation struck home that the girl he had spent the best part of the day with, and probably offended at least once, was close to the Dark Lord. He had stifled a nervous laugh, and had been the sole recipient of the Dark Lord's attentions; all the while wondering when the hammer would fall. Even now, twenty years on, the memory still had the power to leave him with a dry mouth and clammy palms. And he had been right, he thought bitterly; it _had_ been a life-defining moment.

He turned his attention back to the ledger and the grading of the potions. Staring at the page, a thought struck him; frowning, he went further back into the book than necessary, back twenty years in fact. He looked down the list of names until he found, in the neat handwriting of Professor Slughorn, the name Ophelia Black. The first term of her first year was exemplary, Outstandings for every potion and every piece of homework. The whole of her first year was the same; the second year was the same with only a few marks for absenteeism and a few Exceeds Expectations. He continued, until part way through her third year her average grade dropped. No longer were there a series of perfect 'O's but 'EE's, and then that dropped to Acceptable; throughout her latter years at school her grade in potions was pitiful. He frowned and thought back on Sirius' revelation in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Was there some connection? Regulus' death may have caused a sudden drop in results and attentiveness, but not the sustained decline that he saw in the neat columns before him. What had precipitated such a catastrophic slip in a subject that she had an intuitive grasp of and a natural talent for?


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine.

"I don't quite understand, Headmaster," Lupin said uncertainly.

To his left, Sirius glowered and sat sullenly with his arms folded stiffly across his chest, and to his right, Minerva nervously played with her handkerchief. Moody sat across from him, both his eyes fixed resolutely and worryingly upon him, and Dumbledore sat directly opposite. He had been surprised when he arrived to note that so few members were present, and slightly cowed by the fact that it seemed to be for his benefit. He had listened carefully to the Headmaster's words, while Sirius muttered under his breath and Minerva's discomposure increased. His own trepidation had spiralled from his gut, but as far as he was aware, nothing that the old man had said up to this point had warranted such a negative reaction.

Dumbledore smiled fondly at Lupin and sighed deeply. "The procedure we intend to perform can only work under certain circumstances, in other words, the intended recipient must possess the ability to access those lost memories. Also, there are risks."

Minerva twisted the cloth in her hands and Sirius hugged his chest more firmly; Lupin thought he could hear the man grinding his teeth.

"There is a possibility that the procedure will make her condition more untenable," Dumbledore said solemnly. "In the few attempts of using the Mnemosyne potion, the outcome has been catastrophic for some of the recipients."

"The potion is poisonous?"

"Hah!" Sirius blurted out, causing Lupin and Minerva to jump in their seats. "Should the Ministry decide to rid themselves of the Dementors," he said resentfully, "then they can always administer Mnemosyne to the residents of Azkaban."

"The potion is as effective as the Dementor's Kiss at destroying a person," Dumbledore explained quietly. "It was used six times to cure individuals in the same position as Gilderoy Lockhart, and in three cases the wizard was reduced to a mindless shell. As with all things, there were those who corrupted it to a darker purpose, and the Office of Potion Accreditation classified it as a dark potion, formulating heavy penalties for those who brewed it and those who administered it."

"But we aren't going to let the mere illegality of it stop us, are we?" Sirius whispered nastily.

Lupin had never seen or heard Sirius so angry, and it was creeping over him that the situation was more dreadful than he had originally thought.

"Who do we intend to administer the potion to?"

"Ophelia Black," Dumbledore supplied softly.

"Ophelia Black," Lupin repeated incredulously.

"Yes! Dear, sweet, Cousin Ophelia." Sirius said in a sickly, sweet, sing-song voice.

"That will do, Sirius," Dumbledore warned softly. "I cannot impress upon you, Remus, the severity of our request or the importance of it; in accepting to aid us in this procedure, you will be using a potion and a procedure deemed dark and, therefore, worthy of censure. If it should fail, then the mind of a young woman will be destroyed; however, should we succeed, we will have a weapon against Voldemort which will turn the tide of this war.

"The decision to follow this course of action," Dumbledore continued, "is out of your hands; after much deliberation, I have agreed to allow the procedure to go ahead and will bear the full responsibility for it. All I am asking of you, Remus, is to help Alastor and Minerva care for Ophelia while she responds to the potion."

Lupin frowned and turned to glance at Sirius, as his friend glowered at the Headmaster. At the unspoken question, Sirius smiled wryly and turned to look at Lupin for the first time that evening.

"My presence," he said quite bitterly, "may be detrimental to the procedure," he sneered, " as Ophelia is close to me."

"Certain safety measures need to be observed," Dumbledore said almost impatiently, while studying Sirius over the rim of his half-moon glasses. "Only six of us will know about this endeavour, and it is imperative that it remains so."

Lupin gave the matter some thought and quickly realised that the anonymous sixth wizard would have to be Severus Snape; who else would brew the potion? He gave Sirius another look and noticed that the broiling anger that had infused him moments ago now seemed to have deserted him and he sat rather limply, looking at the wood grain pattern in the table top.

Dumbledore waited for Lupin to turn back to him and with weariness etched into every line of his face, he fixed Lupin with a sombre stare. "The procedure is unpleasant, both for the recipient and those witnessing it. The recovery of the memories is an emotionally painful event; she will relive the worst and best moments of her life in a very short period of time, and so I warn you that her experiences may be distressing to observe. There is the risk of defensive magic being unleashed as she suffers, and her reactions towards you and your companions may be threatening and vicious; as such, you will maintain protective wards at all times even, and especially when, she seems to have overcome her ordeal."

Sirius' earlier vehemence took on another dimension for Lupin after Dumbledore outlined the danger; the child that Sirius had loved may have been a devoted servant of Voldemort. The realisation slithered down his spine and coiled in his gut; those days in the sun for Sirius may have burnt him more deeply than his skin. His heart clenched in sympathy; Sirius had lost his closest friend, his surrogate brother, betrayed by another and left to rot in a demon-infested prison by the last. The happy thoughts that he had protected behind his righteous anger, those precious memories that had warmed him while his body shivered in his squalid cell must be shrivelling faster now that he was hearing the truth than when he was food for Dementors. He could understand Sirius' anger at the constant crumbling of his world, the repeated disillusionments and the dashed hopes. He could empathise with Sirius' wish for one facet of his world to have remained untainted, and wished that the dream of being loved by a loving child could have been it. He was tempted to refuse Dumbledore's request on Sirius' behalf, but it would help nothing, would not ease the sting or heal the wound.

"I understand Headmaster. I will do what is necessary."

Across from him, Dumbledore blinked slowly and then nodded gratefully, he was, Lupin mused, aware of his dilemma of choosing the Order over Sirius. "Thank you, Remus."

Beside him, Sirius shifted in his seat and made an attempt to speak, decided better of it and slowly, dejectedly, stood. "I'll go and leave you to it." He gave Lupin a weak smile and reached out to give his shoulder a gentle squeeze; without waiting, he left the basement kitchen. Lupin twisted in his chair and watched his friend pull the door closed behind him.

The silence lay heavily between them, each lost in their own thoughts and battling their own reservations; Lupin noted that even Dumbledore was uneasy.

"Alastor and I will visit with Veronica Speedwell this coming Friday and disclose to her the potential to recover her memories."

Lupin's eyes narrowed shrewdly and he tried not to feel anger and disappointment at Dumbledore's duplicity. "And leave the rest up to her after she becomes Ophelia once again?"

Dumbledore pursed his lips and an unaccustomed flash of anger glittered in his blue eyes. "There is hope," he said sternly, "that all is not as dire as it seems and our caution unwarranted."

Moody harrumphed sceptically and scratched at his scrubby beard. "Although it is highly unlikely. Be warned, Lupin, that Ophelia Black may be a devout and clever follower of Voldemort." His blue eye burned with fervour and his magical one was fixed on some point beyond the walls. "It would do yer well to remember that and not be befuddled like some others."

"We shall see what we shall see." Dumbledore finally interrupted Moody's scepticism. "We hope to start the process on Friday, Remus; I hope that gives you sufficient time to recover?"

Lupin swallowed rapidly to moisten his dry throat and smiled weakly in the face of Dumbledore's gentle concern. "Yes, Headmaster; I'll be perfectly fine by then."

Moody had then spent the rest of the evening outlining his security proposals, which were simple and direct and revolved around the principles that communication with the woman should be kept to a minimum, and she should not, under any circumstances, be allowed to acquire a wand. They had decided not to use Grimmauld Place due to the number of meetings and people traipsing through the place, Hogwarts was also eliminated as a choice due to the students and the presence of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor. In the end, they decided to use her rented cottage and heavily ward it against noise, magical discharges and any surprise visitors. The next crisis point in the plans was the meeting with Veronica Speedwell; Dumbledore was desperate for her to see the appeal of his plan and to willingly take the potion, it would prevent the alternative and his conscience would remain merely troubled.

"Alastor and I will visit with her this Friday and present our proposal," his voice trembled minutely, "we will summon you both, Minerva and Remus, when we are ready to administer the Mnemosyne potion."

Minerva straightened in her chair; and while Lupin processed the headmaster's words, he heard her agree with ferocious directness: obviously, Veronica would have little choice to become Ophelia. "Yes, Headmaster," he said quietly.

Sirius heard them talking in the hallway, and then the front door snapping closed. He heard the soft shuffle of footsteps across the carpet and the creak of a floorboard just outside the door to the drawing room. He could almost hear Lupin deliberating, and then there was a tentative knock against the wood and the creak of hinges.

"Sirius," Lupin began, and then sighed as his resolve floundered. He hesitated in the doorway and then moved to slip into the leather chair next to his friend's.

From the corner of his eye, Sirius saw Lupin sitting on the edge of the chair, staring at the cold hearth and nervously rubbing the back of his knuckles. The heavy shadows made Lupin's face appear more gaunt and sickly than ever, and exhaustion still rested heavily across his slumped shoulders. Sirius had forgotten how much his friend suffered and felt annoyed and selfish with himself for not noticing until now.

"I'm not angry with you, Moony."

Lupin started at the croaky voice and then smiled awkwardly.

"Let's just say," Sirius continued, "that my life is turning out to be less than I imagined it would be and," he laughed humourlessly, "I'm not adjusting to it very well." He rested his head against the back of the chair and stared up at the mottled ceiling. "I had all these grand ideas and high hopes when I first realised that I was really free. I remember sitting in your kitchen, drinking tea, wondering how something so basic could taste so wonderful, and looking out of the window, watching the wheat ripple in the wind and birds swooping in the air." He stopped as a lump formed in his throat and blinked rapidly until his emotions quietened. "I had hoped to be right in the heart of it, to be right there with Harry and to—well, to be just like it was in the old days."

Lupin remained silent; in the gloom, it was difficult to discern the expression on Sirius' upturned face, but his pale, bony hands hung limply over the chair arms and his legs were flung out in front of him—a picture of dejection.

"From what I understand, if the potion is successful, her current personality will still have influence over her." Lupin spoke carefully, as if broaching his own tentative hopes rather than building another's.

"And see the error of her ways?" snorted Sirius.

"Possibly."

Sirius suddenly lunged forward, his fingers digging into the chair arms and his eyes burning with rekindled anger. "No," he snarled. "What is it with you?" he demanded. "You seem to have a blind spot when it comes to certain Death Eaters; you all think that deep down they're just misunderstood, and with a little guidance could redeem themselves and be better people." Spit flew from his mouth and Lupin sat frozen and aghast at the power of his friend's wrath. "She was instrumental in Regulus' death; told the Dark Lord where he could be found and then completely destroyed his remains. No Death Eater was more loyal or devout. No matter who or what she becomes after the Mnemosyne potion, I don't want anything to do with it!"

In the ringing silence, Sirius was breathing hard and Lupin could hear his own heartbeat.

"Don't look like that, Moony," Sirius said gently as he settled back into the chair. "You have to do what you think best, and getting the information from her is the best thing that we can do; don't think that I don't appreciate that. But," he continued, his voice tinged with bitter anger, "she's not, and never has been, my dear little cousin. She's a Death Eater through and through, and you would do well to remember it."

He punctuated his disclaimer and warning with a vicious stabbing of his forefinger into the air. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and gripped the roots painfully. "Sorry, Moony," he whispered, screwing his eyes closed.

Lupin forced himself to move and stepped over to stand next to Sirius' chair. He reached out and placed his hand on the bony shoulder and squeezed firmly. Sirius' eyes opened and flickered up to settle on Lupin's face. He let go of his hair and rested his hand on top of Lupin's.

"I just can't see her," he pled, his eyes glistening and his lower lip trembling, almost imperceptibly. "I just can't."

---X---

Smith strode from the decrepit house and into the stinking alley that had disgusted him only a few hours before. Now his stomach clenched and churned for a different reason. It had taken a few moments for the name and then the significance to sink in, and when it had, it went straight to the bottom of his stomach. Topliss had been one of the trainee Aurors at the crash scene during Moody's initial investigation. The same Auror was now in charge of assigning scrolls, organising surveillance missions and various other little tasks. With only starlings and a stray dog as witnesses, he cast the Patronus Charm; a silver raven burst from the tip of his wand, flapped its shimmering wings and landed on his shoulder.

"Go find Moody!" he ordered in a harsh whisper. "Tell him to me at mine as soon as possible—I have news."

The raven blinked, launched from its perch and flew high up into the air. Smith watched the bird as it seemed to gather its bearings and then, in a flurry of flapping wings, fly away.


	10. Chapter 10

Minerva McGonagall sniffed dismissively and took a sip of tea.

"I don't know why you always sound so happy when you say checkmate. It's not as if I win that frequently."

Dumbledore chuckled and watched the damaged pieces pull themselves together and scurry back into the box. The surviving pieces either strode or limped across the board, depending upon their status.

"I never seem to have the chance to play very often." He waited until his victorious king had finished bowing pompously to the other pieces and then closed the lid. He heard Minerva's cup rattle against the saucer, the logs popped and crackled in the fire and behind him Fawkes whistled softly in his sleep. He felt comforted by these simple sounds and closed his eyes. He knew Minerva, and, therefore, knew that the quiet would not last. She appeared to find the flower pattern on her saucer quite fascinating, and he could see her lips thin as she fought her doubts.

He sighed, accurately gauging the cause of her consternation, and summoned his own drink.

"Do you think I made an error in judgement in wishing to approach Ophelia?"

She placed her cup on the table between them and rested her elbows on her knees. She clasped her hands tightly and rested them against her chin, peering at him over the gold rim of her glasses.

"At first I agreed with Alastor; the risk of involving her overwhelmed any benefits and therefore she should be left well enough alone." She pursed her lips and frowned as some thought disturbed her. "Then Poppy told me about Walter Scrope." Dumbledore nodded, indicating that he knew the name and the story. Her fingers fluttering and drumming against the back of her hand were the only outward sign of her discomfiture with the Ministry's methods of maintaining secrecy. "The Ministry found him living as a Muggle who could do nothing more than clever parlour tricks, and yet they took him from his wife and children. They tried to 'cure him' and ended up destroying him as effectively as any Dementor could. Poppy said he spent twenty-seven years in the permanent spell damage ward at St. Mungo's before he died. As I understand it they will treat Ophelia in the same fashion."

"Walter Scrope was practically a squib when he was discovered living outside Ministry control; Ophelia is powerful, if limited, and, therefore, much more of a threat to maintaining the secrecy regarding our world: I doubt that they would concern themselves too deeply with her rehabilitation."

Minerva nodded and relaxed back into the plush, crimson velvet chair. "I cannot say that helping her regain her memories and her power is anything less than the right thing to do. But, I believe, you may be giving her too much credit to assume that her gratitude will secure her as a member of the Order."

"Ophelia is a determined, resourceful, loyal and above all intelligent young woman. I believe she will see her role in this war and accept it gracefully, and despite your concerns the benefits will overwhelm the risks."

"I wish I had your confidence," she said softly. "Merlin knows we need more help; everything seems much worse now and …" she placed her trembling fingers over her lips as if to dam the words.

"Everything is much worse now, Minerva, and there is no shame in fearing it," he whispered. "Our courage is not measured in our lack of fear, but in our ability to face it."

"Very trite." Despite herself she laughed.

Dumbledore shrugged magnanimously and took another sip of tea. "As I said before, she is an intelligent woman and will see her role clearly."

Minerva sobered instantly and scrutinised the serene man in front of her, and wished, not for the first time, that she was a Legilimens. He had been sorted into Gryffindor, and no truer representative could exist, but sometimes she felt that Slytherin had lost a champion when the hat had finally placed him.

"What do you mean?"

"Alastor was the Auror in charge of the investigation into the accident," he responded, mindful of Minerva's impatience, "it was rumoured that Death Eaters had been in some way responsible, and it was deemed imperative that the rumour be quickly nipped. He and his colleagues were dispatched to the site within minutes of the accident and quickly determined the cause to be non-magical. They searched for wizards, as is their priority in such matters, and found two amongst the devastation. An analysis of the wand remains indicated that one belonged to her, and with no evidence to suggest anything sinister it was decided that one of the unfortunates was Ophelia Black and the investigation ended."

"In hindsight rather presumptive, but I fail to see how someone's oversight two decades ago could possibly help us now."

"You are quick to suggest an error, but Alastor was quicker to suggest conspiracy."

He smiled at Minerva's dismissive snort and continued as if she was deeply intrigued.

"He spent the best part of eight months determining the truth of the matter and his constant vigilance has yielded surprising and disturbing evidence."

"Eight months?"

"Yes. I agonised over what should be done for the best, should I leave her and hope that her abilities remained inconspicuous, or should I attempt to heal her and reinstate her in our world? Meanwhile, Alastor scoured the records pertaining to the accident to discover how she survived, and how it came about that she was left in a Muggle hospital."

"Alastor is not infallible."

"No," he conceded, "but it seemed strange that the local police found, quite by accident, what seven Aurors were trained to find and yet had somehow missed." He settled into his own chair, drained the teacup and banished it to the table next to Minerva's. "The Ministry reports were beyond reproach and he contacted those who were involved, and still available, to compare memories, and again nothing suggestive of underhandedness. Dissatisfied he, shall we say, borrowed police reports and compared those with his own notes. Again there were no discrepancies, no fallacious recollections and no evidence to support any theory other than amazing good luck or improbable incompetence." He forestalled Minerva before she suggested which one seemed the most plausible. "I do and have always had the utmost faith in Alastor's abilities as an Auror, and despite his excessive tendency to dramatise, I believed that he was right."

"A conspiracy then? To what end?" Impatience and tension made her tone harsh and demanding. She disliked the way that he constantly drew out the moment, revelling in his listener's fascination and curiosity.

"Ophelia Black, you may be aware, is the illegitimate daughter of Capella Black, and when her mother died guardianship passed to Elladora Black. There she lived with her aunt, quite happily I understand, and far more comfortably than in the small house on the Cumbrian coast. Little is known of those four years with her mother; it is only through Andromeda Tonks that we know anything about her life before attending Hogwarts. Alas, there is very little in Madam Tonks' recollections, but one thing stands out: the first time Ophelia performed spontaneous magic within the Black household Andromeda recalls that the poor child panicked. It appears that Capella Black had taken great pains to instil dread into Ophelia about her abilities and to pre-empt any situations that would encourage them from developing." He frowned as he spoke, it was one fact disclosed by Andromeda that had interested him above all others, and he wished he knew more about Capella Black to determine what prompted her to smother her daughter's nascent magical abilities. Minerva shook her head sadly, it was not unknown for families to repress what they considered odd behaviour in their children, but it was usually only true in Muggle families where they were ignorant of the Wizarding world. Other incidences of repression tended to be causes of concern. "It took considerable effort on the part of the family to encourage her to explore her abilities. Soon afterwards Andromeda left to marry Ted and subsequently excised from the family, and after that we catch up with her when she joins the school."

"I remember her Sorting; the Hat seemed to have difficulty placing her," she said, while plucking breadcrumbs from her skirt and placing them on the saucer, feigning contented tolerance as he unwound his story. She knew from long experience that he never responded favourably to impatience and it was better for her nerves if she just allowed herself to be swept along with the story. "She was certainly pleased to be sorted into Slytherin."

"Yes, Andromeda mentioned that Ophelia wanted to be close to Narcissa; their relationship was very strong and the Hat placed her where she most needed to be. Indeed the bond between them was strong enough to compel Narcissa to offer her husband's home to Ophelia when the school broke for the holidays. We only have a few accounts relating to her stays at Malfoy Manor, but they seem to suggest that the arrangement was a pleasant one. Of course, in time, Mr. Malfoy's allegiances began to affect the home and I believe that Narcissa arranged for Ophelia to live with Andromeda to protect her from Voldemort's influence, but, unwittingly, precipitating the awful destiny awaiting the young girl. In her short life, you see, she was in the very hearts of the Malfoy and Black families, privy to their words and deeds. As a result someone may have considered her ideally placed to gather information about those families and their ties to Voldemort. Alastor believed that because of that she was somehow intercepted between Andromeda's home and the terrible derailment."

"Intercepted? By the Ministry?"

"Alastor believed so," he said solemnly. "The pressure on the Ministry to apprehend Death Eaters was immense and, sadly, many strategies were employed to achieve results. I remember several complaints being levied against Minister Crouch and his Elite Aurors involving unlawful arrests and dubious questioning techniques. In search of answers Alastor located and spoke with Sigmund Norwood, who had been in charge of the Elite Aurors and who was discharged from service shortly after Minister Crouch resigned, and persuaded him to divulge any information regarding Ophelia. Sigmund was an old man riddled with regrets and readily eased his conscience, such as it was, by confessing to Alastor that he did oversee the abduction and interrogation of Ophelia. They removed her from the train via Portkey and questioned her under Veritaserum, subjecting her to a most gruelling ordeal. They returned her to the train and cast a Memory Modifying Curse; their crime hidden and unknown. We both know only too well the devastating consequences of a badly applied Obliviate charm. The carnage of the train wreck may have enhanced the degree of memory loss and confusion and so the remnants of her mind would be almost irreparably damaged." In the dimming light he saw Minerva's expression darken and her knuckles whiten as she gripped the chair arms. "Alastor and his team had already completed their search and left the scene as the Muggle emergency services arrived, and in the chaos her body was simply slipped out with the survivors."

"But to use a child! The poor girl must have been terrified." She covered her mouth once more and closed her eyes as if it could stop the images playing in her head. "It was unfortunate that she travelled by Muggle rail that day"

"Andromeda was looking after Nymphadora at the time so the duty fell willingly to her husband, Ted, and as he was unable to use the Floo-network or Disapparate they had little choice in the mode of transport. He was injured in the accident and spent several days unconscious, ironically, in the same hospital. When he regained his senses he was questioned by the Muggle police and Alastor, but his statement, again, indicated no foul play and the investigation was closed with the tragic determination that Ophelia had perished." He shook his head sadly and behind him Fawkes trilled sympathetically.

Minerva dispersed the outrage and tried to think dispassionately. A young girl was taken and persecuted by Ministry officials, in so doing they were forced to hurt her and steal her memories, and now all that was going to be restored. She could easily determine that Ophelia would have no respect or admiration for the Ministry, but she failed to see why she would willingly join the Order rather than return directly to her family. She watched Dumbledore as she pondered and noticed that his gaze had drifted off into the fireplace, the flames danced in his half moons, and his expression was weary and strained.

"There's something else isn't there?" She saw his eyes close and his lips draw back as if her words had wounded him. "Did you think her ideally placed, Albus?" His slow nod was almost imperceptible. She allowed herself a moment to be shocked, and then forced herself to think as a leader responsible for those who fought and died. She shuddered and felt the burden's weight descend unpleasantly. It was easy to adopt the moral high ground, free from responsibility and blame. It was easy to forget that information had been the most desperately sought resource in a time when the Death Eaters seemed to have had every advantage. She had gratefully devoured each nugget the spies served and had used it remorselessly. Wartime allowed no scruples and times of peace suffocated in recriminations. She would not diminish Dumbledore's efforts with reprimands or deny her own culpability with her subordination.

"Did the Ministry suspect that Ophelia was assisting us?" She kept her voice steady and bland.

"It did occur to me."

"And?" She queried gently.

"Sigmund did indeed take Ophelia from the train on Ministry orders, but I doubt that they made the decision based on any connection to us; I suspect that her family were enough of a reason to intercept her."

"Did Ophelia know she was assisting us?"

"I thought it best that she should remain as innocent of her duplicity as possible."

"Should someone wish to question her?" She responded more spitefully than she intended and instantly felt ashamed when he winced. However, he bowed his head, acknowledging and accepting her dagger gracefully.

"I'm sorry; that was uncalled for."

"Minerva, my dear, a conscience is a luxury unwisely indulged in during a war; I was forced, occasionally, to treat it as a vice. I can hardly expect you to accept that now any more easily than I could then." He continued, interrupting another more heartfelt apology. "I suffer for some of my decisions, but have learnt to accept them as necessary and, therefore, do not regret them; too many people have died to allow me that."

"I understand."

He studied her fondly, with a mix of amusement and disbelief until her temper flared.

"I am not so young or naïve, Albus, that I have not lived to wonder at some of the decisions I have made."

"Of course, forgive me."

"So, Albus, how did she manage to help us?"

"A go-between from the Order, someone she trusted, would visit with her."

"The only person who springs to mind is… Sirius."

"Yes. His connections to his family were tenuous but extant, and, therefore, he was granted access to Ophelia. It was a simple matter for him to listen to her as they played. The arrangement lasted until she left the care of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy to live with Andromeda; Sirius, of course, continued with the visits as soon as the move occurred. I daresay she was a joy to him. More tea, Minerva?"

"What? Oh, yes please." They watched as the empty cups blinked out of existence and two fresh ones, billowing steam and complete with milk and sugar, appeared with barely a rattle of china. The house-elves had also generously sent up a platter of sandwiches and cakes. Minerva summoned her teacup and a sandwich, checking the filling before plucking it from the air and taking a delicate bite. How would Ophelia, a grown woman, view those memories without the benefit of time's buffering smoothing the edges and shadowing the tension? Would a different perspective turn those treasured moments into agonising betrayals?

"We cannot assume that the Ophelia we knew is somehow going to emerge and continue from where she left off?"

"No," he said wearily, "but I believe that Sirius' impact on her was great enough to make her see what was right and wrong with the Wizarding world. There were hints of her dawning realisation during the latter months of her stay at Hogwarts; incidents suggesting that she was struggling with the notion that her family was not what she thought or hoped they were. Her Head of House was increasingly concerned with her behaviour towards her housemates and felt obliged to pay more attention to her than he felt necessary for one so young." Sometimes he felt much older than he was, and nevermore so now as she sat primly on her chair dismissing his callousness as good strategising. "Failing that it will strike her that the only ones left who have any claim on her are those very same people she was growing to distrust; people who have embroiled themselves deeply in the philosophies and ranks of Voldemort." He watched the cup slowly descend back to her lap and the fingers tighten around its delicate handle; above the crackling fire he heard her breath catch and the teacup rattling against its saucer. "She will remember the despicable treatment she received at the hands of the Ministry and discover the loyalties of her family to be repellent."

"And run willingly into our arms?" She scoffed.

"She will find it difficult to live unprotected in our world."

He had hinted at it and she was prepared for the subtle implication in the simple declaration, but it still surprised her. "You're going to use blackmail," she stated despondently.

"Minerva, my dear," he soothed, "when the time comes I will do nothing."


	11. Chapter 11

On Apparating, Moody was struck by the brine scented wind as it whipped around him; he staggered for a moment at the intensity of it and then he glanced around. The furze seemed to go on forever, vibrating stiffly as the air rushed over it, only the occasional scrawny tree lancing upwards broke the monotony of the scene. Seagulls screeched and soared overheard, and he could hear the heavy, dull pounding of waves against rock.

The house he sought was perched on the very edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the heavy bruised sky. Had it not belonged to a wizard it would have surely succumbed to gravity and fallen. It was tall and slender with numerous chimneys sprouting from the sharply angled roof. It suggested great melancholy; the very building seemed to lean over so that it could watch the waves bite and grind at the cliff as if wishing that it could tumble into the ocean's uncaring maw. The shingles had been painted black, but over time sea-spray and rain had bleached most of it. It now looked like a solitary, partially rotten tooth jutting up from a gangrenous jaw. Moody shuddered and wound his way through the resisting furze: Smith was expecting him.

The door opened without so much as a creak and Moody felt slightly disappointed at the anti-climax before the thin and pale face of Smith appeared before him.

"Come in, Moody," he said quickly, while stepping aside and helping Moody to remove his thick travelling cloak.

Moody followed Smith along a thin hallway, again contradictorily light and cheering, and into a small kitchen. Smith ushered him into a chair, finished making his tea, and then slid into the chair opposite.

"I went and saw Smethwyck today," Smith said curtly. "We had a nice chat about the good ol' days."

"Get much from him?"

Smith frowned and took a sip of tea. "He gave me a name of someone who may be able to help us further."

"This is turnin' into a right melodrama, Smith."

"Well, I think we're in the closing chapters, my friend."

"The suspense is killin' me," groused Moody.

Smith chuckled and told the Auror what Smethwyck had divulged; watching the grizzled face before him darken as the tale unfolded.

"Topliss!" Moody exclaimed. "I wouldn' have thought it."

"I tried to get in touch with him at the Ministry, but he hasn't been in work for months; apparently he's been transferred to an isolation ward in St Mungo's." He took another deep gulp of tea and then sighed softly. "Could just be another dead end." Despite his careful and consoling tone Smith thrummed deep inside; it was like he'd woken after a long sleep and was shaking with raw power. The challenge of the investigation had given him a new lease, a new joy and fervour that had been absent since the death of his wife. He knew that the search had to end soon, but some secret deep down part wanted it to last, wanted to savour it. He knew that this would be the last meal before he died, and he wanted to glut.

"If it ain't then that lad has some explainin' to do!" snarled Moody. He went back to those memories that the damned Pensieve had stirred up all those months ago. He tried to see how Topliss could have been involved; if the boy had done anything that in hindsight was suspicious. And there was nothing! Topliss had been the model of proficiency and professionalism. His mood worsened as he tried to connect the cadet to the apparent death of the young witch. "Don't make sense though," he muttered. "What would he have to gain by makin' it look like she'd died?" Both his eyes fixed on Smith's carefully blank face. "What would have been the point?"

Smith shook his head slowly. His mind had been whirling and spinning with various ideas and theories, but none of them made much sense. He had even pondered that Ophelia had been abducted for ransom, but after so many years and knowing that she had been released into the care of the Muggle emergency services rendered it unreasonable. Darker and more evil suggestions had crawled up from the blackest corner of his imaginings, but he doubted that Ophelia would have been allowed to live if she had suffered that nightmare. If she had been taken for extra questioning then why not do it all under the guise of the Ministry acting in everyone's best interests? She would have been unaware if the questions were unnecessary or unethical.

"Nothin' else has been goin' on," said Smith dejectedly after his thoughts had spiraled back into doubts and confusion. "In fact a remarkable amount of nothin' has been goin' on. It seems that what Dumbledore and young Potter have been sayin' has been put down to either high spirits, madness or scaremongerin'."

Moody snorted at the stupidity of it all, at the sheer bloody-mindedness of them all that they could have such warnings and yet ignore them. He shook his head and sighed loudly.

"'Spose we'd best check out Topliss, as he is our only lead," grumbled Moody.

---X---

She had walked this road many times before, some sign of her should be imprinted upon the pavement, some testament to her many footsteps, but all that existed were cracks, litter and other, less pleasant, adornments. She had, at one time, walked briskly and eagerly to St Mungo's, where she worked as a healer. With time, however, her enthusiasm had been dented and bruised by the constancy of it all, all the injuries and accidents, all the tears and fears. There had been a time, a terrible time, when her feet had pounded upon it after Death Eaters had attacked a Muggle school and her fiancé had been injured, caught between two vile hexes.

Now her feet scuffed against the uneven, cracked slabs as if of their own will, while she stared ahead with unfocused and sunken eyes. Rain pummeled the ground and water rushed and gurgled along the gutters. The pavement was slick and cars went past in a hiss of spray. She failed to notice the two men standing in the bus shelter and the silver tabby crouched under the hedgerow, but it was no matter as Evelyn Topliss had not noticed anything for quite some time.

She continued past the bus stop and ambled along the pavement, unaware of her concerned and determined entourage. Her feet took her to the end of the street and then turned her right. The wind was fierce, channeled between two tall rows of flats; her breath was snatched away and tears plucked from her eyes, her hat blew from her head to roll on its rim, bouncing and darting up the road. But still her feet marched her forward.

She pushed open the gate and strode past, not bothering that she did not hear the gate close behind her, and neither did she jerk or scream when a gentle hand caught her elbow.

---X---

Various emotions warred across her face; fear, confusion, despair, anger, sorrow, grief, disgust and disbelief. Her fingers mindlessly entwined and writhed in her lap, and her eyes flicked from one face to another, trying to see the cruel joke, or some chance of error. But some part of her knew that what they said, what deceit and horror they had suggested, was indeed true; she could recall the moment he had fixed his wand upon her, and how his eyes had burned with some strange zeal as he cast the curse.

"Why?"

It was such a small word, one that could be a mere exhalation rather than a question. She tried to answer it for herself; tried to see the reason for such a thing because there had to be, and when her shattered and exhausted mind had turned from the task she had begged to know from those around her.

Moody sighed softly, such a gentle demonstration of grief and sorrow that Minerva had reached out to grip his shoulder on instinct.

"Can yer remember what he asked yer to do?" Moody asked gently.

Evelyn shook her head and stared at Moody as he knelt near her feet, her eyes scrutinised his face and then she tentatively reached out a hand to gently catch a few strands of his wispy, grey hair between her fingers. Moody held his breath as she rolled the strands between thumb and forefinger, an idea began to crystallize in his skull, lancing through his brain and thundering down his spine.

"He asked me to get some of your hair," she whispered, her horrified expression belying the soft wonder of her voice. "He said that he was going to get you to go to St Mungo's for a health check with one of the healers." Her eyes lost their focus as she trawled through her memories.

Moody nodded and remembered how the team of Aurors investigating his ordeal had asked that he return to St Mungo's. He had baulked at the idea, but had finally agreed; constant nightmares and exhaustion giving him little recourse.

"A while back Brian came home all flustered and bothered," she licked her lips and frowned. "He said something about an old scroll and how it mustn't be reopened. It seemed to weigh heavily on him and he seemed even worse; I was so worried." Her voice was getting softer and softer, as if she dared not vocalise her fears. "We'd just finished dinner and he'd gone to do the dishes; I followed him to help." Her face twisted as a painful memory made itself known. "I saw him open up his arms and I thought … I thought that he'd found some peace with it all. I rushed to hold him, my husband." She held her head and trembled. "He whispered in my ear that he was sorry and that if there was another way then he would take it." She sobbed into her thin hands. "He pulled his wand and cast that hideous curse." She collapsed in on herself, curling up on the chair; they could hear soft sobs and moans coming from the tight mass of misery.

Dumbledore stood by the mantelpiece; he had maintained a silent vigil on the empty, dark, wind ravaged street while Moody had cast the counter-curse and started questioning the woman. He had sensed Minerva's eyes upon him several times, and he had felt an irrational anger and resentment bubbling up inside. Couldn't he be allowed to keep himself separate from one painful act? He was being gracious after all. This was no atrocity or necessary evil; this was the liberation of a woman from a terrible curse. He closed his eyes and listened to the barely audible grief which somehow managed to drown out the ticking of the clock, the fire crackling in the hearth and his blood rushing through his ears. He opened his eyes and turned to study the tableau before him—it was quite stunning. Evelyn was a tight bundle of grief wrapped up in a floral print chair with Moody on his knees, his hands on the ends of the chair arms. Minerva stood to the side, her body bent at the waist as she studied the poor creature with blatant sympathy, her hands clenched above her own breaking heart.

"Where is Brian now, Evelyn?" asked Dumbledore.

Minerva blinked and turned her head to glance at Dumbledore; his tone had been sharp and unsympathetic. Evelyn stopped and slowly lifted her head to peer at the man through her stick thin fingers. An answer sprung to mind, but she knew that it was false; she felt compelled to answer nonetheless.

"He's at St. Mungo's." Her tremulous voice conveyed her forced dishonesty, she whimpered as the last vestiges of the curse worked their evil magic. She clutched her head as if in pain and then sagged back. "I don't know where he is." She licked her lips nervously, and fixed Dumbledore with a beseeching stare. "I believe him when he said that he had no choice; whatever made him do this I have to believe that he had no choice. Please, when you find him, please remember that."

Dumbledore studied the pale woman, trembling and fearful, and he wished that he could think as she. However, he smiled and nodded, he could afford her this. She visibly sagged with relief.

"How did he pass on his instructions?" Moody enquired gently.

"He talked to me via the Floo," she admitted quietly.

"On a daily basis?" Moody asked.

"No, but I knew to sit by the fire at eleven every night in case he needed me." She would have thought that she would be feeling something, anger, hate, disgust, betrayal and yet she now felt eerily calm. Her thoughts were ordered and precise, they all focused upon one thing: why? Without the curse crushing her mind she wondered why these people had been her rescuers and not the Ministry of Magic; why were these people not calling the Aurors? In those questions she saw some benefit to her husband and she clung to it. She recognized them all, McGonagall had been her teacher, Moody had been an important figure in her husband's early career and Dumbledore was, obviously, just well known.

"I cannot impress upon you, my dear, how important it is that we speak with your husband," Dumbledore said firmly.

Evelyn felt a flash of irritation, her first unfettered and honest emotion in many months, and she pursed her lips. "I managed to deduce that for myself, sir! When I said the time I was already thinking that you would wish to be here."

Dumbledore smiled and bowed; the woman had returned, the strength that had supported her husband, to be stolen by him, was flooding back, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes now blazed with a fierce determination.

"Very well," Dumbledore said decisively. "We shall, in a few hours, seek the truth in this matter."


	12. Chapter 12

Brian Topliss sat staring into the cold hearth; he had never felt so weary, the very air felt a crushing weight upon his bowed shoulders. Beyond that fireplace sat a woman he loved, a woman he had cursed in a vile way, and a woman that he longed to be at peace with. He felt a wave of rebellious and frantic emotions bubble up from his gut, and he was tempted to allow them to erupt, to scream and rage, but he swallowed them… now was not the time. He glanced at the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and noted with a mix of dread, fear and guilt that it was very nearly eleven. He licked his dry lips and ran a trembling hand through his thinning hair.

"This has to be," he mumbled to quieten some inner turmoil. "There is no choice."

His red-rimmed eyes darted from the hearth and to the dirt encrusted window where the harsh wind had blown some grit against the glass. Heart pounding and his breath catching in his throat he paused and waited for any other sound to suggest that his place was no longer safe. Content that he was alone he settled back to combat that inner struggle that had twisted and terrified him for as long as he could remember; that inner desperate compulsion that made him do these awful things. He let a sob escape his throat and dropped his heavy head into his hands. He had no choice; some all consuming thought told him that, he felt it resonate through his bones, he had no choice. He whimpered and felt those emotions crashing and colliding deep within, and he wondered where it had all started, and what was so important about Ophelia Black that he would risk not only his soul but that of the people he loved. He sobbed again, not caring as the sound echoed in the small, darkened and dirty room, and gently rocked in time to the ticking clock that callously counted down the minutes to his next crime.

She sat on the chair and counted her breaths, in, out, in and out, pause to swallow and then in. The fire crackled and popped in the hearth and although the heat of it caught her shins, she derived no comfort from it. Standing either side of the fireplace, like two prison guards, were Dumbledore and Moody, they stood serenely enough, and she wondered if their hearts beat as frantically, or if they felt the weight of it all crushing their minds and chests. The clock began its charming and delicate tune on the mantle and nausea welled up like storm surge. The first chime of the eleventh hour snatched her breath and her eyes felt large as she peered into the flames. The second chime drew a whimper from her throat, and at the third she gripped the chair arms. She knew that she had to be still; she knew that she was meant to be that mindless automaton he was expecting. But after all those months, and knowing that the feelings at her release were now going to be resolved, and the fear, hope, dread and intensity of it all rushed through her veins and thrummed her nerves: she could barely keep herself still. With a panic she realised that she had lost count, but some tension in her guards suggested that the eleventh chime was close.

The fire erupted in the hearth, and from somewhere she drummed up the strength she needed and she sat limply and listlessly in the chair while her husband's haggard face appeared in the flames.

His compulsion bested him again and he knelt on the cold stone to push his face into the green flickering flames. Through the distorting heat haze he saw her sitting as she always did, and he was tempted to dive through, remove the curse and hold her close. Beg forgiveness, not caring if she did, but knowing that his sin was reversed if not cleansed. Instead, that obsession stayed him and he merely wished.

"Evelyn," he called out softly.

She turned to him and he stared into her eyes; those eyes reflected despair and hope, anger and love. He shuddered as some part of him roared in triumph that somehow his terrible curse had been rendered moot, and another part screeched that he do what he must. He sensed movement, and then exerting his own will in a way that had failed countless times before he made himself stay still and waited for that seeking hand to close around him.

Moody pulled his hand out of the fire, and a shabbily clothed gaunt wizard fell heavily onto the hearth rug. Evelyn sat stunned in the chair, not recognising the man she knew to be her husband. The ex-Auror quickly disarmed the wizard and bound him.

Topliss lay there, sobbing and laughing until they couldn't distinguish one from the other. Evelyn slipped from the chair onto her knees and leant over the wreck of a wizard.

"Brian?" she whispered. "Oh, Brian!"

"Evelyn," he whispered harshly, "you must release me."

Evelyn reared back, looking horrified, her hand covering her mouth. She had looked into his eyes and seen such madness and chaos; his eyes had burned with some fire that terrified her; had it scorched him and rendered the man she knew down to nothing but ash?

"Evelyn," he repeated more firmly, almost angrily. "You must help me."

Evelyn stood and backed away until Minerva's comforting hands gripped her shoulders. She watched in silent terror as the man she loved began to writhe and scream, struggle and curse on the carpet. Moody ended the man's wails with a Stupefy, and in the silence they looked at the man with the answers, lying insensate.

Evelyn had watched as they levitated her husband into the kitchen and sat him in a chair. Without protest she saw them cast a Partial Body Bind and place a vial of clear liquid on the table. Quietly she sat on a chair in the corner and observed Dumbledore cast a series of complex charms over her unconscious husband.

"He is cursed," Dumbledore said with some puzzlement. "But what that curse is I have no idea." He stroked down his beard and studied the quiet, pale man; had this wizard been the victim of a curse as vicious and evil as the one he had cast upon his wife? The spells that he cast seemed to suggest that Topliss was suffering some curse of coercion and depression of will. He tried a standard counter-charm and was dismayed that the spell had little effect. Together, he and Moody cast a complex array of spells and charms, until they were content that whatever malignancy had gripped him was now purged. The strains of such were evident in the sweat beading on their brows and the trembling wands as they stood over him.

Moody took a shaky breath and sank into a nearby chair; Dumbledore slipped his wand into his inner breast pocket and patted the sleeping man tenderly on the shoulder.

"That should do," he offered gently, glancing over at the pale and visibly shaking woman. She slowly forced herself to look away from the man slumped in the chair and managed a weak smile of gratitude before having to bite her lower lip to stem the flood of emotion. "Alastor, would you administer the Veritaserum?"

Evelyn watched in morbid fascination as Dumbledore carefully lifted her husband's chin and Moody let three glistening drops fall from the clear vial onto the exposed tongue. Still, gently, cradling his chin, Dumbledore cast Enervate and with a splutter and shudder Topliss woke a new man.

"Brian?" Evelyn queried hopefully, tentatively, as she approached the table.

Brian turned his chocolate brown eyes to her and smiled lopsidedly.

"That's me," he answered jovially.

Evelyn let a burst of hysterical laughter pass her lips, and sank into the chair next to him.

"Oh, Brian," she crooned while brushing some errant strands of greying hair from his forehead.

"Do yer know who we are Brian?" asked Moody gruffly.

"O' course I do," he said. "Alastor Moody and Albus Dumbledore." He looked past his wife and bowed. "And Professor McGonagall." Finally he smiled and his eyes flickered over Evelyn's face, drinking her in. "And my wife; my Evelyn."

"Brian," he said more firmly, "we need to ask yer some questions, lad."

Topliss sobered, with a sigh his smile slipped and he faced his inquisitors. "I thought as much; ask away."

"Did yer have anythin' to do with the disappearance of Ophelia Black?"

He frowned, and his eyes unfocused as he trawled back through his confused and disjointed memories; the potion demanded a truthful answer, and he was struggling to bring together his recollections.

"Yes," he admitted quietly.

---X---

She had started at the sight of him, and for a moment stood dazzled before whipping her wand round and casting a Full Body Bind; shocked, angry and confused he fell to the floor with arms and legs stiff at his side. The fall had been fortunate and he could see her and the people on the carriage floor. Her face was dotted with tiny cuts and her left eye was swollen and red. The jeans and jumper were scorched and bloodied, and a tear in the denim suggested that her left thigh had been lacerated. Unable to move or speak he watched in futile desperation as the witch rolled a moaning girl onto her back and knelt down. With terrifying deftness the young woman pulled out a dark glass vial and began to pour the dark viscous contents down the barely conscious Muggle's throat. Within a few moments the teenager began to thrash around, and then he watched in horrid fascination as her features and hair morphed into that of the witch; even the wounds were the same.

The young witch licked her lips nervously and stood, wincing as her weight shifted onto her left leg. Topliss tried to fight the curse, his every instinct was screaming at him, every muscle worked frantically, but the curse held him fast. Small muted sobs burst past his paralysed throat and blood thundered past his ears. Screaming at her to stop, trying to shout at her, he saw the terrifying witch stand and aim her wand at the now insensate girl. How was this happening? Why was she doing this?

"Avada Kedavra!"

A stream of green light burst from the tip of her wand, but they could both see that the curse lacked intent; he heard her scream in anger, despair and frustration, how her hands clutched and tugged at her hair. He tried to scream again, feeling the tendons in his neck burn with the effort.

"Avada Kedavra!" she screamed out again, her voice pitched with pain and desperation.

He could feel the curse slipping; he could move his hands and feet. With wide eyes and desperate movements he prayed that the curse would fail before this witch completed the deed that she saw as so necessary. He watched as she searched the carriage, looking for a weapon; while distracted her curse weakened. Between sobs and grunts he inched his way across metal floor to where his wand had fallen; mere feet away, but in his condition it could have been miles. From the corner of his eye he saw the impossibly dedicated witch pick up a shard of metal that had burst from the carriage wall. She knelt by her prone doppelganger and pressed the sharp edge against the girl's throat.

Perhaps she heard his heavy breaths, or the sound of him picking his way through the debris, but she turned on him. He saw the dreadful desperation in those dark brown depths, and then she uttered a curse that crushed him.

"Imperio!"

He felt himself slipping into the soft and welcome grip of the curse, somewhere a voice screeched and demanded, but the lack of responsibility, the lack of effort, after facing the enormity of what he was trying to combat was too tempting. He saw her press the sharp, glittering edge of the shard against the Muggle's throat, a sudden movement, and then the floor darkening with spilt blood. The viscous, precious liquid ran along the grooves in the floor, spreading, terrifyingly quickly, as it poured from the wound. The vestiges of the body bind dissipated, and despite the soft gurgling and weak movements coming from the dying girl he stood to do her will.

"Help me!" she demanded. "Get the girl—don't use magic!" she commanded. "They'll detect that; pick her up and take her to the front of the train."

He nodded, and despite the fact that the fire was the fiercest at the front he carried the girl over his shoulder. He heard quick footsteps behind him as he entered the thickest part of the smoke and then, thanks to the charms, he walked calmly through it. The doorway to the carriage was twisted and narrowed so he was forced to throw the now cooling corpse through the gap while he squeezed through after. A sharp prod in the small of his back made him step further in. The stench of burnt flesh would have over-powered him had he not some higher purpose to set his resolve. A soft gagging sound made him turn, and through the thick smoke he saw her bent over and spitting bile onto the floor.

"Where do you want it?" he shouted.

She pointed vaguely towards two upturned seats close to where a fire raged. The charms were just able to cope with the intense heat and he dropped the girl almost in the flames. He watched with detached interest as her dark hair began to singe before igniting to swathe her head in fire, and how her fingers blackened. The flames licked across the back of her hand as if it was some creature tasting its prey until satisfied, and then those small tentative flames suddenly erupted into a devouring conflagration. His macabre vigil was interrupted when she grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

"Listen to me," she said, once they had returned to the relative calm of the off kilter carriage. "I have three potions; this" she said, holding up a small bottle, "you will drink now." He took the offered bottle and quickly gulped down the contents. The taste was unfamiliar. "This potion I will drink soon," her eyes were now wide and he saw her terror and fear. "It will make me look as though I am dead, and after I drink it you will take me to a safe place and complete your duties as though nothing has happened other than this crash." She inhaled and seemed to battle a wave of nausea, and he could sense that she only a breath away from hysteria. His heart leapt for her, he would do all that he could do to protect her. "When you are free, and it causes no suspicion, you will come and find me and give me this last potion to drink." He studied the clear pear-shaped, glass bottle and the silvery liquid inside and nodded quickly. He knew that he had to defend this girl, protect her at all costs, nothing was more important than her life and words.

She studied him intently and then lifted the potion to her lips; he watched her throat work as the liquid slid down. He stepped forward to catch her, and then he was out of the train and carrying her away.

After Moody and the other senior Aurors had finished collecting their evidence and casting their charms, and his duty was done, he made his way back to her hiding place, carrying a bag of things that he thought would be of use . As the hours had dragged his heart had hammered in his ribs, and only the notion that all must be as it should had kept him from screaming in frustration and running from the Ministry. His training and the potion warred with his needs and instincts. Once he was free he rushed to her, his heart in his throat and desperation strumming his stretched nerves. He found her as he had left her, lying in a disused culvert, the Disillusionment Charm had worn off and only the conjured blanket protected her. He knelt beside her in the rain water and searched her pockets for the last potion. He slid his arm under her shoulders and lifted her so that her head fell back and her mouth opened. He poured the contents of the pear-shaped bottle down her dry throat. He noted with concern her cold, limp body and her pale skin… had he been too long? He counted his breaths while he waited, after sixteen he felt fear coiling in his belly, after thirty he slapped her colourless cheeks, and when he shakily inhaled his sixtieth breath fat tears slid from his eyes and onto her forehead. He stopped counting when she suddenly convulsed in his lap, her hands reaching out to grip his clothes, drawing in a deep, desperate breath and her eyes wide and frantic. He pulled her up into his arms and held her as she shivered against him. He cast a Warming Charm and rubbed her cold arms and back until the charm suffused her trembling body and cast out the cold. He pulled his bag closer and pulled out a thick heavy coat, a scarf, hat and some gloves; while she recovered from the after-effects of the potion he gently dressed her.

"I had no choice," she whispered quickly. "It had to be done." She sobbed quietly as he buttoned her coat.

"I know," he said soothingly. He looked up and straight into her bewildered and frantic gaze. Her eyes were dark, like bitter chocolate, and he saw such despair and fear in them that it snatched his breath.

"I can't do this," she suddenly had cried out. "He asked me to, and I can't do it! I just want to forget." She was openly weeping, her flushed cheeks slick with tears. "I tried and I couldn't, and I can't carry on."

He listened as she mumbled her pleas and fears, wishing that he knew what she was referring to, what things she was mentioning. Her suffering was cutting into him like knives, and he felt useless as each sob and stifled wail slashed. She fell back into his embrace and wept against his chest. He would have held and comforted her, but he was here to protect her. He pushed her away, gripped her shoulders and looked at her.

"We need somewhere to go; you need to be safe!"

She stared blankly at him, then swallowed her grief and sorrow and was that tower of strength that had terrified him when he first saw her.

"You will keep me safe!"

He nodded eagerly and without hesitation; he would kill and die for her.

"Keep me safe; keep Ophelia Black safe. Make the Wizarding world think me dead, and never come looking for me!" She licked her lips, and what colour she had drained from her face. "Cast the Obliviate Charm and then hurt me as if I was in that train crash; then, make sure that no one ever finds me. Do whatever you must; whatever you can."

Brian Topliss nodded and stroked her wet cheek. "I will keep you safe, Ophelia Black."

With that promise and vow he pointed the wand at her temple while she closed her eyes and smiled as if in rapture.

"Obliviate!"

---X---

They sat in stunned silence, each lost in their own thoughts while Topliss sat panting from the effort of talking. His mind was clear of the curse and potion that had directed and manipulated his will for two decades, and yet thinking freely was exhausting him. He was aware of his wife sitting quietly, but supportively next to him, her hand still gripping his own, and he could feel the mounting tension emanating from his guests. For the first time in quite a while he was concerned for himself and his wife.

"I used various curses to injure her, and then made a call to the Muggle emergency services; they came and took her away. She had planned everything quite nicely, the Polyjuice confused the magical tests to determine the identity of the corpse, and the Draught of Living Death was in someway enhanced to make her magical aura fade during the initial search. It was perfect. I then used my influence within the Ministry to keep her well hidden, and, until just under a year ago, I was convinced that I had done my duty."

Dumbledore nodded while his mind worked frantically. "A young girl was murdered to keep her safe Brian."

Here Topliss bowed his head and his breath became shallow and erratic. "I saw that girl, sir, and she would have died; her life would have been only minutes longer, and I believe, even after that curse has been lifted, that the girl's death, at that time, served something."

"What do yer mean?" growled out Moody.

The Auror's head snapped up and he looked at Moody, his face set with grim determination. "The curse made me protect her, and in that there was a loophole. It didn't prevent me from learning about her and meeting with her; to do what I considered best to comply with her request. I spent the best part of her recuperation talking with her teachers and doctors, studying her and learning about her."

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up and he leant forward in his chair, focusing his attention upon the man who now had more pieces to the puzzle than anyone else.

"I am a proficient wizard, but I have always lacked skill with Memory Modifying Spells; the Obliviate was flawed. She was still aware of the Wizarding world, but in an abstract fashion, she was putting images onto paper that to her were dreams or nightmares, not realising that they were images from her own memory. The doctors encouraged these artistic outlets and I, of course, was privy to them too. As her pictures became more revealing and intense so her behaviour and temper disintegrated." He shook his head sadly and gave a soft sigh. "I was at a loss as to how to help her, and I relied upon the Muggle doctors to heal her. In hindsight that was an error in judgement." He swallowed and ran a trembling hand through his hair. "The things she drew and the nightmares she discussed were instrumental in a number of cases levied against wizards, and, albeit unknowingly, she helped to incarcerate a number of Dark wizards. They also displayed how deeply she was caught up in that world, and I could understand why she wanted to leave it and forget everything. I suspect that she was escaping in the only way she knew how." He looked up at Dumbledore, his eyes suddenly ablaze and alive. "It has long been thought that Lord Voldemort created Horcruxes and I think that Ophelia knows what they are; it has always been imperative to keep her safe." He suddenly groaned and clutched at his hair. "Even if that curse hadn't made me I would have protected her with my life, but I suffered; it pained me daily to know that I had the solution to our nightmare and my duty prevented me from using it. The things I've done over the years to keep her safe."

"And Norwood?" Moody encouraged.

"He died of a heart attack!" he said hastily. "I had nothing to do with it." He let out a whimper as the memories of what he had done over the years collided into one giant mass of guilt and despair. Amongst the milling throng of thoughts and questions there was the overriding and insistent demand that he discover exactly _why_ Ophelia Black had thought fit to manipulate and distort his mind. Was her reasoning worth his anguish?

"I think I can understand why she planned it all, why she fervently desired to get away from _Him_ and the others; but I can't forgive her for what she's put me and those I love through." Brian wept; his cheeks glistening and his lips trembling. Next to him Evelyn stood and pulled him against her, stroking his hair and muttering words in his ear, her tears dripping to mingle with his.

"Ywe weren't in yer own mind," said Moody smoothly, trying to ease the distressed wizard. "She has a mind and will for such things."

Sniffing, Brian pulled away from his wife's loving embrace and his red, swollen eyes fixed on Moody. "Oh, you misunderstood me," he said softly. "She doesn't have it in her; that's why I can't forgive. She hated what she had done; her art and stories reflected as much; she must have hated it back then, and yet she still did it!" His face reddened with anger and his voice increased in strength. "Of all the options she had and she chose to do that! She's no Death Eater; she's …" he hesitated as he tried to find the right description. "She's dedicated!" He smiled wryly and gave a short, angry laugh. "Thank Merlin that she had no intention to follow the Dark Lord!" He sobered and shook his head sadly. "I don't hate her; I am just so _angry_ that it happened. We could have protected her. Hell! I would have protected her."

"It is no longer solely your responsibility," said Dumbledore. "There are those who can protect her and in such a way that we can end this nightmare."

Topliss sagged with relief and gave a small smile of gratitude. "I want this to end," he whispered. "I want to carry on as though it was a nightmare; I haven't the strength, after all this time, to fight it." His head lolled to the side and rested against Evelyn's side, his eyes closed and he sagged as one would after a gruelling battle. "It all could have been so different," he mumbled sadly. He opened his eyes and looked upon Moody, sitting resolutely in the chair opposite. "The investigation into Norwood's death will be stopped, I will—" he said firmly, only to suddenly stop, looking pained. "I will tell the Aurors what I've done, and any suspicions regarding your involvement will be nullified." Topliss licked his lips, and his hands gripped desperately and fearfully at his wife's hands. Moody nodded and waved a hand almost dismissively, as if it were a mere misunderstanding and not the precursor to a stay in Azkaban. Moody knew that the new Aurors would be hard-pressed to generate a scroll against him without the hairs and fibres that had been destroyed months ago. Brian nodded gratefully at Moody, his breath hitching and stuttering as he realised that it was finally over for him. "I know where she lives;" he continued firmly. "I've been moving her around from place to place so as to keep her hidden."

"We know," Moody chuckled darkly.

The Auror blinked several times. "What do you mean?"

"We've been trying to find her for the best part of a year, lad, and if I'd have known that yer knew I'd have come visitin' sooner with some grapes and well wishes."


	13. Chapter 13

The wind tugged on his coat, slid through the gaps and wound itself around his body. He shivered violently and pushed his hands deeper into the pockets, hissing as the bitter chill stung his cheeks and nose. Next to him, Moody stood motionless and intent upon the whitewashed cottage before them. Lupin felt his spirits sink as the mournful wind howled through the twisted trees and whistled through the furze. He ached from his recent transformation, and his mind kept slipping uncomfortably over what he had become involved in; the idea of a greater good seemed less potent now that he was here, being buffeted by cold sea winds and a troubled conscience. He recalled how Dumbledore and Moody had returned to Grimmauld Place with the startling news that the plans would change in light of recent evidence. Moody had looked grimmer than ever, his lips pulled back and his frequent sips from his hipflask a sure indicator of some deep inner turmoil. Dumbledore had looked equally uneasy, and finally it had emerged that Veronica Speedwell would be treated as potentially hostile. He had sat there and listened to the two men argue, gently, about what would be the new plan of action. After a hasty conversation, and a few ruffled feathers he had found himself agreeing to join Moody as he went to watch and study the lost witch before any definitive action was taken. And so it was that on this gloomy and mournful Thursday morning he was crouching in a spinney, feeling just as gloomy.

"She's here!"

The gruff whisper penetrated his despair and his heart leapt. His eyes scanned the path leading from the cliff edge to the cottage and he caught sight of a distant, lonely figure clad in a hooded, charcoal-grey jogging suit. He didn't question Moody on how he was sure that the barely discernable shape was Veronica Speedwell, nor did he feel relieved that the wait was over.

The figure ran strongly along the cliff edge, the head turned frequently to look out over the dark, grey, stormy sea, and soon she was close enough that they could hear her footfalls, and see her heavy, rapid breaths blossom into clouds as they burst from her mouth. Lupin watched carefully as she reached the edge of the fencing round the cottage and stopped, bending and placing her gloved hands on her knees while she steadied her breathing. Her tracksuit was tight fitting and highlighted the slightness of her frame and the hood kept her face hidden from view, he only managed to catch a glimpse of reddened cheeks and stray dark hair that had escaped the confines of the hood. She straightened and walked towards the gate, pausing as if to sniff the air, her shadowed face turned towards them and Lupin held his breath, it seemed that she was somehow looking for them. He was sure that her eyes lingered on him and he was caught in her gaze; he was amazed at its intensity. The moment passed and she turned sharply to push open the gate and enter the small rented cottage. Lupin relaxed, surprised by the sudden tension, and turned to see Moody, scowling fiercely and grinding his teeth.

"That was unexpected!"

Lupin frowned and shivered as the wind redoubled its efforts. "What was?"

Moody turned and fixed Lupin with a penetrating, thoughtful stare. Lupin felt that the old ex-Auror was reining in any number of unpleasant responses, but then the man sighed and shook his head.

"This gets worse and worse lad." He turned to look into the cottage, and then grumbled something that was snatched away by the wind.

Moody sucked on his teeth and drummed his fingers against his thigh; he hadn't expected this. He wondered what other tricks the little lost witch knew, and then wondered if his plans were sufficient to deal with this development. He looked back at the young man who was older than he should be, and took in the exhaustion and concern lining his face and pressing down on his slumped shoulders. The young man made old studied him expectantly and politely.

"Come on, lad; let's go back and get some food and get warm." Without waiting he turned on his heel and followed the path away from the cottage and cliffs.

Lupin gave the cottage one last scrutiny, with its darkened windows and eerie sense of emptiness, despite the knowledge that it was now occupied, and followed the grizzled wizard.

Moody lumbered ahead of him, and it seemed the further he walked the higher his spirits rose and the less dour the landscape became, the wind was no longer piercing and moaning as it sped over the land. So wrapped up in his musings was he that he almost walked into a very angry-looking Moody.

"D'ya feel it?" he snarled, prodding Lupin in his chest. "She's not just a lost little witch! She's using advanced magics!"

A cold dread slithered down Lupin's spine and pooled unpleasantly in his gut, he pondered the significance of the glance in his direction and the sudden lifting of his mood.

"You think that she's faking her memory loss?"

Moody seemed to drag his mind back from some deep and dark thoughts and then shook his head slowly.

"I dunno lad;" he said dejectedly, "but she certainly knows that she can do these things. The charms were sophisticated, but not easily recognizable, which means that she's made 'em herself."

Lupin frowned and tried to clear his head, order his thoughts, but the wind was getting harsher and colder, and the sensations of cold prickling his fingers and stinging his face were becoming almost impossible to ignore, demanding his attention. In front of him he saw Moody's face slacken in surprise, and then the Auror began to stumble and clutch his head. Lupin tried to reach out to steady Moody, but the wind weighted his arm; he was left, shocked, to see the ex-Auror fall to his knees. Lupin let himself fall and crawled towards his companion, he was staggered at how strong the wind was; he struggled to breathe, the wind seemed to force its way down his throat and into his lungs, burning his chest and preventing the necessary exhale. He wrapped his tattered scarf over his mouth and nose, but the material seemed no barrier to the penetrating wind. He lifted his head, the muscles straining as the ferocious gale battered him. He looked up and the wind whipped away his tears, he saw Moody's face twist in anger, and then the old man was reaching out to him, shouting, but the words were lost to the wind. Moody seemed frantic, and then to Lupin's horror Moody pulled out his wand and aimed it between his eyes. Lupin fumbled for his own wand and then, while his numb fingers closed around the freezing wood, the tip erupted.

"Come on, lad," Moody roared. He saw Lupin, shivering and kneeling, reaching out with arms that trembled and seemed tugged upon by invisible hands. He berated himself for not seeing it earlier, and with an effort that had surprised him he had fought off the curse. His heart pounded and blood thundered, his limbs trembled and blue spots danced in front of his eyes. He saw Lupin cover his mouth with his scarf and then cram the material against his face; the man was clearly suffocating and struggling to breathe through the thick material. He reached out for the young man, shouting, but Lupin seemed unable to hear him, his advice on how to beat the curse went unheeded. He saw Lupin's skin change from red to grey, and the man's hazel eyes begin to roll in their sockets.

"I'm sorry lad, but yer will thank me later!" Moody pulled out his wand, saw a moment of sheer panic in the young man's hazel eyes as he fumbled for his own wand, and then cast his spell.

"Stupefy!"

---X---

He could hear voices, muttering; he cracked open an eye and saw Dumbledore watching him with a concerned smile, and behind him Moody looking awkward, with his good eye watching him while the magical eye was turned to peer out the back of his skull. He was surprised to see that he was back in the rented room of the local bed and breakfast; the floral wallpaper couldn't possibly be up in anyone else's house.

"How are you, Remus?" Dumbledore asked gently

"A little confused, but fine."

"Huh!" scoffed Moody, but without much venom. "You damn near suffocated yerself, lad!"

Lupin shook his head and tried to take his mind back to earlier, but all he could remember was the cottage, and then the feeling that some great pressure or weight had trapped him and he was struggling under it.

"I don't seem to remember much," he admitted quietly.

"It seems," Dumbledore began softly, "that you were the victim of an elaborate curse which seemed to amplify your concerns; Alastor was convinced that he could not deal with the situation and was encouraged to end his task."

Lupin grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck; the muscles were sore and tense. "I was thinking about the weather; how cold and windy it was." He shuddered as the memories flooded over him; the force of the wind battering at him and the burning cold as it sliced past and through him.

"It was a fairly hefty curse," Dumbledore uttered firmly, giving Lupin's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Now we know that we're dealing with a witch in possession of her gifts then we shall tread more carefully. Using the rented cottage is no longer feasible; she will have to be taken to Grimmauld Place." He stood, towering over Lupin, and then turned to Moody. "Shall we strike tomorrow as planned, or sooner?"

Moody glanced over at Lupin. "How are you feeling lad?"

Lupin shook off the vestiges of his recollections and stood. "Fine!"

He was surprised and heartened to see a flicker of a smile cross Moody's face.

"We do it now then!" declared Moody.

Dumbledore nodded gravely and waved his hands over his richly, coloured robes which promptly morphed into grey, dull, Muggle clothes. "Now it is then!"

Lupin followed them out of the small Bed and Breakfast and into the gloomy street, it had rained since and the pavement was slick. Streetlamps hummed and plinked, turning the street into a mix of greys and pools of orange. He was disorientated by how much time had elapsed, morning had directly shifted into evening… how long had he been asleep? The air was still laden with moisture, but the wind had died down considerably and was oddly warmer than earlier. He walked along the High street, past dark, empty shops and past a rowdy pub, until they came to a small wooden post indicating a public footpath. They turned off the main road and walked along it in the dark. Moody stopped them just before the cottage came into view and cast a series of complicated spells, Lupin recognized a few of the protection charms, but the others were unknown to him; Dumbledore seemed unfazed by it all.

"The plan," Moody said quickly and quietly "is to get in and curse her as quickly as possible; no explainin', no apologies for arrivin' without an invite and no chats on how the weather is—got it?" His blue eye moved form one to the other while the magic eye was fixed firmly on the cottage and its occupant. "I'll cast Malleus on her, and then we'll take her back to headquarters."

"Malleus?"

"It's a very old spell, Remus, and one considered, by many, to be dark." He sighed and stroked down the length of his beard. "The things we must do."

Dumbledore spoke softly, so softly that Lupin almost missed the Headmaster's admission and remorse.

The spells tingled around him as he stepped round the bend and saw the cottage. He was surprised at how pretty and charming it looked, rather than the squat unwelcoming place only a few hours before. The wind was chill, but not the fierce, biting thing it had been earlier. The downstairs was lit, and through the thin curtains, in what he considered to be the sitting room, he could make out shifting shadows.

"We Apparate into the front room," Moody said softly. "On three! One … Two … Three!"

They all stood in a frozen tableau for a mere fraction of a second. Three wizards faced a tall, slender woman dressed in a cream, long-sleeved top, and hip hugging jeans. She held a steaming cup, her slick, wet hair dripping onto her shoulders, and wearing a stunned expression. In that instant Lupin saw her pale, oval face, her dark eyes, her soft pale lips, her delicately arched eyebrows and her slender nose; she was the darker image of Narcissa. Her dark, intense gaze, once again, fell upon him, and Lupin thought that he saw recognition in those depths, some complex mix of emotions stirred up by his face. Then that face twisted in anger and fear. The cup was hurled at them, the hot contents turning into scalding droplets; she turned on her heel and attempted to dive through the doorway into the hallway.

While Lupin had been caught up in that odd moment of connection, Moody and Dumbledore had cast their spells; Dumbledore maintained a protective shield and Moody cast Malleus. Lupin watched as an amber streak of light erupted from the tip of Moody's wand and curled around the retreating woman. He saw her flail as one might batter flames and her anger dissolve into absolute horror as the magic licked and wrapped around her. She twisted and overbalanced, crashing into the doorframe rather than escaping through it and slid down onto the floor. Past the blood whistling in his ears he heard her whimpers and moans and the thuds and thumps as she frantically writhed and squirmed to free herself. The tendrils of magic weaved a cocoon around her, tightening and swathing her in amber light, until she could no longer move, and then even her whimpers stopped. Through the shimmering magic prison Lupin saw her panic filled eyes slowly glaze over and then flutter closed.

So many questions had blasted through her mind and that had been her downfall. While some deep part of her mind had screamed that she run, other parts had stopped to admire the view. The tall, elderly, bearded man with piercing blue eyes had triggered a tumultuous torrent of memories that had paralysed her. In her wonder she had taken the time to look at the others, and her eyes had latched onto a much younger man with greying hair. She had allowed herself to dwell upon the new memories that bubbled up from the deepest and darkest recesses of her fractured recollections. She was struck with an immense feeling of loss. So much she had lost, surrendered and squandered for this security that was as false and as futile as her hopes. Decades of wandering with only the occasional backward glance, and it should all be for nothing because she was lost in a glance. Confused by the sudden barrage of emotions, instincts and memories she hesitated. Too late had her body and mind decided to act as one. She could feel the horrible pressure of magic building up even before she had thrown the mug, and as she flung herself towards the door some spell had caught and wound itself around her. She instinctively summoned and directed her magic, but it was somehow stolen from her, like an illness that saps strength, she could feel her desperate efforts and see how little was the result. Anger evaporated and fear condensed. She did as all panicked creatures do and resorted to blind and mindless effort as she struggled and fought against the constricting and smothering bands of magic. Finally, her strength gave out and with her magic severed or stoppered she lay there, panting and wild-eyed. Through the shimmering magic she saw the three men slowly converging on her and then her vision closed in and all became dark. Her last thoughts were of a fat, lazy snake coiling around her legs, and a tall, handsome man with red eyes welcoming her home.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Notes: Better Not Knowing is completed, save for any corrections which are needed. Thank you for reading thus far, I hope that you have enjoyed your ramble through this tale. A special thank you to Silent falcon (falcon falmorgan) for her patience and perseverance, and to all those who have made suggestions, criticisms and offered their opinions, they were all very much appreciated.

"Ah" crooned a teasingly familiar voice, "you're awake."

Her eyes, after much coercion, focused on a bearded face with twinkling, piercing blue eyes and a concerned expression. She grimaced as bile rose up into her mouth and tried to swallow, but her mouth was painfully dry. The acid burnt, and with it came rolling, growing waves of nausea. She knew that face! The details eluded her. Just as the face of that haggard looking man had paralysed her while some instinct had demanded that she run. She moaned softly and closed her eyes. Tears threatened, but she'd learnt a long time ago that they were a waste and, so all that occurred to indicate her distress was the almost painful sting in her eyes and one stifled dry sob. She tried to summon the anger, the hate, that had fuelled her for so long, but it was gone. She opened her eyes and looked up at the cracked, dirty, stained ceiling.

"We restrained you with Malleus," Dumbledore saw her eyes widen slightly. "Ah, I see that you are familiar with the curse."

She wanted to shake her head in denial, feeling terrified that she couldn't summon the disbelief and ignorance that she would have expected. She somehow knew what he had meant; understood the unfamiliar word. Who was this man? Why did she thrum with terror and yet yearn to cleave to him as if he were some long sought saviour?

"As you will know, then, the curse is debilitating, but will dissipate with time." He stood and loomed over her. "Time that you should spend considering your position, Ophelia."

She felt her eyes bulge and her breath catch in her throat. That name! Ophelia. It was like an answer to a question she hadn't known she was asking. Part panicking and part jubilant she looked deeply into the man's eyes. She saw something flicker in the glistening blue, it evaporated too quickly define, but she found that it only heightened her dread and desperation. He, in turn, seemed to bore into her mind, his gaze was startlingly intense and under his scrutiny she felt exposed and raw.

"I can understand that this is a terrifying ordeal for you," his deep voice cracked with the effort of restraining some emotion. "I can only offer you the comfort, that what we do will benefit many, yourself included."

She found that her mind was flooded with scraps of tattered memories, of dreams and nightmares that she had thought long buried. His face was there in amongst the carnage of wrecked thoughts. She shuddered and felt herself heave, at which point the bizarre mental cascade ceased, and all she had to focus on were the sounds of their breathing. He had averted his gaze and was staring blankly at the dark, stained duvet.

Her throat seemed frozen and any sounds or words she wanted to make struggled and died in her reluctant throat. After what felt like an age he turned back to her, smiling sadly and his eyes seemingly less penetrating, but glistening all the more.

"We have something for you to drink." His face contorted at the fear flaring in her eyes. "I have sat many a night wondering if there was another way, wondering if this vile act is absolutely necessary, and I have to say that I cannot find an argument potent enough to stay my hand."

Inside she screamed and writhed, inside she begged and pleaded, inside she withered and died.

"I can promise you that you will be released, you will find peace with yourself."

_I'm going to die_, her mind screamed. _This man is going to kill me! No! No! Please no! Please! Help me! Someone! No!_

The bearded man, who looked so serene and gentle as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out what looked like a black bulb vase from his inner breast pocket. He looked at it and his expression was so calm, as if it was nothing more sinister than a cup of warm milk and he was about to tell a bedtime story.

_Get away! Let me go! _

She tried to move, tried to slither away, but whatever thing held her was too strong. Her eyes were fixed on the strange black vase held delicately in his thin fingers. Her tears, streaming down her face, were the only things free to move.

"You will drink this, before the others arrive; they must remain blameless."

_No; please don't! I don't know what you want! I don't know! Why? No! No! Oh God! No! Why? Why? Why?_

Her head felt that it would burst under the pressure of her thoughts and mental pleas and cries, her heart thundered deep within her chest, and sweat ran in rivulets from her body. She watched and wept as he leant forward and gently slid a hand behind her neck. He placed the lip of the bottle against her lips as he tugged tenderly, lifting her head so that it tilted back.

_Why me? Who are you? Bastard! Get it away! Stop! Don't hurt me! Oh God__! Don't kill me … please … no …. Stop._

"I cannot ask for forgiveness, indeed I do not require it, but I do hope that in time you will understand why I have to do this." His voice was barely a whisper, but in her fear and terror her senses seemed amplified and immense.

_No…. no….. no….. no ……__ no._

Her vision blurred with copious tears and her mind exploded, leaving numbness as the cold liquid poured into her mouth and her treacherous throat swallowed.

_Oh sweet Merlin__! …. No….._

_Merlin? _

_Never mind … hush! Let me come back! It's been so long! So long ….. back …. _

_Who are you? _

_I'm Ophelia, dear Veronica; and, my dear; …. I was here first!_

He was so lost in the sight of her eyelids fluttering closed, squeezing the last tears from her lashes, and how her frantic breaths slowed that he failed to register the first knock on the door. At the second, more insistent, rap he slowly lowered her head and released his grip on her neck. He waved a hand and the lock clicked open, he fancied that there was a longer pause than necessary before the door swung open.

He glanced up and saw Minerva standing straight and focused and Lupin silhouetted in the doorframe.

"The potion will take several hours to have an affect, and then, according to what we know, take a few days to run its course," Dumbledore said as he eased himself up off the bed. "I expect that she will suffer as her memories germinate and evolve; it will be distressing for you to watch."

"Severus explained it," Minerva said soothingly.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "We have a very limited idea of who she was and is now; the woman she will become is beyond our ability to fathom. Be careful and wary!" he warned sternly. "Poppy has been told that she may be needed, but other than that she knows nothing; therefore, be assured that she is available, but only if you need her. Severus is also prepared for any emergencies that may occur due to a reaction to the potion. I will send Alastor up shortly. Please take care—of her and yourselves." He smiled reassuringly at them both and then swept out of the room; the door clicking shut behind him was a relief. He met Moody on the stairs, the grim Auror bristling and wand at the ready.

"Well?" Moody queried sternly.

"I doubt that she remembers much at all; the memories I managed to catch are few and fractured. She has an intuitive grasp of magic; she knows that she can do things that others cannot and she has mastered the art of using it." Dumbledore spoke quickly and simply; the last few minutes with her had been incredibly draining. "To her the dreams and nightmares that have teased and plagued her are mere fancies, and not the memories of her former life. The adjustment will be harsh."

"You think that she will help us?"

"Alastor, dear friend," he said, placing his arm across the shorter man's shoulders as they stood on the stairs. "One thing that we have learnt about Ophelia Black is that she is an incredibly intelligent and sensible woman. She will help us because the consequences of not aiding us are terrible."

"Aye," Moody agreed sadly.

"Choice is a liberty for us all; we must do what we must do." Dumbledore paused and looked up at the shadowed door and the mystery behind it. "We have her and Tom does not, and if that is all the good that comes of this then we must cling to that; how she wishes to move from here is up to her. It is a choice of sorts, not a fair one or an easy one, and, most likely, the last choice she will have." He stroked his beard and smiled sadly. "We face the future better armed and prepared, and hopefully we will live to regret the cost; but for now we will be content with what we have."


	15. Chapter 15

Sirius stood at the bottom of the stairs, his face was expressionless, but his scrawny hand clutched at the banister till the knuckles popped. A Silencing Charm had been cast, but one slip by Lupin had indicated the extreme anguish suffered within the room. The scream had ripped through the house. It had rooted him to the spot, his head twisting towards the sound and the cup he held slipping through his fingers. He had rushed to the foot of the stairs, his heart banging painfully against his ribs, to see the door to her room slam shut. The cry cut dead! It seemed that the walls still echoed the heart wrenching sound, or was it the blood whistling past his ears? He felt his legs move, and before he could register what he was doing he was part way up the stairs. Cursing himself for a fool he stopped and turned back, storming into the kitchen. He wanted no part of it.

He made some tea, even though he wanted, needed, something else, but he saw Lupin's sorrowful and disappointed face every time he thought about the Firewhiskey in the cabinet. He slammed a mug down on the worktop and Summoned the tea caddy, but in his anger it flew past his left ear and thudded against the wall in an explosion of tea leaves. He stared at the scattered pile and then swallowed the rage. A few spells later and the tea was back in the caddy, hot water in the teapot and Sirius feeling numb as he watched the sparrows fly past the window.

It seemed that his life had been one stay in hell followed by another, only those glorious days at Hogwarts seemed to suggest that he had ever known joy. Sixteen years in this stinking hole, so horribly called home, and then thirteen in Azkaban, suffering the same nightmares over and over, and then after all that to be trapped within this hell once again. He gulped down his tea, ignoring the scalding liquid against his lip and the roof of his mouth. Left here while the others went about their business; their special and secret tasks that were so vital to it all.

But that scream had slid past his defences; it had resonated within him, the howl of pain and suffering. He suddenly discovered that despite his best efforts he was sympathising with the witch, relating to her anguish now and her bleak future. He had resolved himself not to be a part of it; he couldn't let himself be party to her abduction, her forced insertion back into this world and her imprisonment. He couldn't accept the cruelty of it.

A soft sound caught his attention, a sniffling sound coming from under the sink. Puzzled he put his cup down and stepped over to crouch in front of the wooden doors. He tugged them open and saw Kreacher curled up on his collection of tattered blankets, and sniffling into what looked like a bedraggled handkerchief. The elf looked up desperately and quickly stuffed the piece of cloth down the front of his dirty smock, before launching himself out from his hidey-hole and past Sirius.

"What does Master want with Kreacher?" the elf said snidely, his manner belying the sniffling whimpering that Sirius had just interrupted.

"What was that cloth you had?"

The elf looked panicked and bounced from foot to foot. "Kreacher doesn't know what master is talking about?"

"Don't lie!" roared Sirius. He had found something to help vent his fury, this vile creature that had ruined his chances of freedom countless times as a child would now be his release. "Show me!"

The elf screamed, and with trembling limbs and eyes brimming with tears he pulled out the cloth and held it out. Every tendon and muscle in the twitching elf's body cried out that it was against his will. Sirius pulled the fabric free and opened it up. It was heavily creased and he grimaced at the damp patches on it, but he saw the embroidered initials in the corner. The green cotton was frayed and most of it had fallen out, leaving small stitch holes, but he could see that it had been R. B. stitched within a circle.

"Another keepsake?" he asked softly while he gently waved the hankie. "Another precious memento of the good old days?"

Kreacher looked suitably mortified at Sirius' treatment of his valued treasure, and was wringing his hands and bobbing on the spot. The large tear filled eyes never left the dirty piece of cotton as it swayed from side to side. Sirius knew that he was being vicious, but he couldn't stop, the elf had destroyed his hopes no end of times and this was the beast's just rewards. He grinned and his eyes felt wide as he drank in the sight of the frantic elf. Suddenly, it didn't seem funny anymore, he felt sickened, and he let the cloth slip from his grasp. Kreacher moved quickly to catch the falling hankie, and once he had it he gripped it tightly between his small hands. The elf seemed to gather himself together and backed away with a nasty smile curving his lips.

"I thought that I'd told you to go away," Sirius said despondently, finally managing to break the awkward silence. With that subtle command Kreacher ran, laughing, from the kitchen.

For several moments Sirius stood frozen on the spot as his mind went over and over what had just happened. How low had he sunk that tormenting elves was sport? How terrible was his life that this had been his one moment of happiness in far too many months? He licked his lips and took a deep shaky breath. Things would change; they would have to.

---X---

Lupin had cursed and slammed the door shut as the piercing scream filled the room. Minerva woke with a start and jumped up from her chair, her face pale and frantic, contorting with pain as she watched the young woman fight with unseen things. Ophelia's nails scratched deeply, leaving long bloody welts on her bare skin, and her sobs and screams were heartbreaking. Minerva had resorted to transfiguring the duvet into straps that criss-crossed the writhing woman to prevent her injuring herself, but that had just increased the desperation and volume of her screams.

Lupin dragged his fingers through his hair, he was at a loss. Ophelia had screamed herself hoarse, and pathetic whimpers and moans now tumbled from her dry and cracked lips. "It's been two days already," Lupin whispered incredulously. "It doesn't seem to be easing."

Minerva looked ready to weep and then inhaled sharply as she rallied. "She will remember very little of this, Remus; we must endure this as best we can." She smiled wearily and turned her attentions back to her ward.

"I hope this is worth it."

"It has to be," mumbled Minerva. "Otherwise what have we become?"

Finally Ophelia's energy and breath seemed to flag and she lay limply on the bed, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, her breath coming in hitching pants. Her skin was glistening with sweat, and her cheeks flushed and bloody from her frantic attempts to dislodge some unseen foul things. Soon her eyes began to roll in their sockets and her breathing softened and deepened; her guardians watched anxiously as she finally settled to sleep.

"We take regular breaks," said a gruff voice from the opposite corner of the room. "This is hard and we'd best make it easy on ourselves." Moody had thought himself sturdy and immune to seeing suffering, but this went beyond what he was used to. It hurt all the more knowing that he was part of the cause, that he had thought the end worth it. "From now on two watch while the third rests, ready to assist when needed."

Lupin and Minerva nodded; they were fatigued and the thought of dealing with her distress and their own troubled minds were overwhelming. It had seemed so easy when they had discussed it in the kitchen, the anguish a necessary evil as they sought something so vital. Here and now the necessity of it seemed inadequate. In fact it seemed quite monstrous.

"Now that the students are doing their OWLs my timetable is fairly clear," Minerva explained quietly. "I will carry on here if either of you wish to take a break and grab some sleep."

Lupin noted with some amusement that Moody had settled himself in the rickety rocking chair. "I'll go and get some sleep," he offered redundantly, with only the mildest hint of irony in his voice. It seemed that the verbalisation of his intent exacerbated his exhaustion, or maybe he really noticed it now that he could relax, but it seemed that aches and pains were blossoming throughout his body; he stifled a yawn.

"We'll wake you if we need yer," Moody said. "Rest well, lad."

And so they had taken turns; one resting, eager to be out of the room to doze uneasily, while the others sat and suffered with the memory-tormented woman. The morbid monotony was disturbed, violently, as she unleashed all the magic she had to free herself from the horrors she was enduring. They had been forced to counter these displays, their wands flashing furiously as they worked to keep the damage and chaos under control. Exhausted and trembling they had grown to fear these outpourings of magic; the madness and desperation condensed into mere moments.

---X---

She had stopped running. Running just exhausted her, and she knew that sooner or later she always fell. It seemed that with this numbness, inspired by suffering such protracted fear, that she could think more clearly. She stopped to study the scenes unfolding before her; she saw idyllic days in the sun, playing with an older boy, he seemed so familiar that she almost called out a name only to feel empty when she couldn't. A smile tugged at her lips at the joy so apparent on their faces, and she wondered if she had felt such happiness. Was that young girl her? The day darkened and she was in a cellar, watching a young girl and another young man chop and slice as they laughed and chatted. She seemed to resonate with the thrill that was so evident; that sense of discovery and achievement as the two figures worked and concentrated; the tension eased by pleasant companionship and delight. The young girl was older and her heart skipped a few beats; the girl _was_ her! Caught up in the moment, her lips parted and her eyes greedily watched, she tried to find clues, tried to expand upon the memory.

_You know who they are._

She spun on her heel, her eyes wide and her breath lodged in her throat. The voice had seemed close, the speaker standing at her shoulder, but although she searched frantically there was nothing to see.

_Oh_, laughed the voice, _you can't see me; not yet anyway_. _But soon you'll know all about me, and them; you'll know everything. And then, my dear, we will have a little chat about your fateful decision, about your betrayal!_

"Get away from me!" A dreadful thought was growing, like a hulking mountain ready to spew forth ash and fire. She had looked for so long, dedicated so much to finding out about herself, and trying to draw out the memories that she had lost. Now, it seemed that her hopes and efforts would be rewarded and suddenly, she no longer wished to know, but, strangely, dreaded_ not_ knowing.

"I don't want you; I don't need you." She shouted into the darkness, her eyes trying to pierce the thick shadows. She could see shifting shapes, indistinguishable, against the dark backdrop. She had never felt such fear, such desperation; she had always managed before, even after she had stopped taking her medication. She had left hospital knowing and assured that she was healthy. Why should that horrible, terrible, thing manifest itself now? Her mind was spinning with ideas and theories; she was merely reacting to her current ordeal; she was stressed and afraid. This was just the result of terror. She thought back on the little tricks that the doctors had taught her; those little mantras that she had used to smother and stamp on that little voice.

"I am Veronica Speedwell; I am calm and at ease."

_You stand there shivering with fear_, the voice sneered. _And whether you want or need me is irrelevant; you have no choice._

"I am in control; you are nothing!"

_Anthropomorphising your delusion!_ The voice said softly, giving a gentle, almost consolatory, sigh. _You're falling back into bad habits._

"I beat you once, and I can do it again," she screamed out wildly. "Do you hear me?"

There was no reply, only the sound of laughter fading away.

---X---

"Protego!" screeched Minerva, her voice barely audible above the strange, screaming howl that filled the small room. She instinctively crouched as dozens of shards of shattered glass struck the shield and ricocheted off in various directions. Moody cursed under his breath as some of the larger fragments embedded themselves in the wall mere inches from his head. The bed was rocking wildly, the feet thumping heavily against the wooden floorboards, and the bed-linen whipped around as if caught in some ferocious wind. The walls bulged and the ceiling bowed; the wardrobe had splintered in sympathy with the smashing window, and needle sharp splinters were darting through the air. The protective charms in place were crumbling under the ferocity of Ophelia's unconscious assault. Magic crackled in the air, discharging itself loudly into the charms and defences that they had carefully constructed. Moody deftly cast Immobilus and the vicious projectiles stopped in mid air. Breathing hard, Minerva and Lupin strengthened the charms designed to absorb and dissipate the magic Ophelia was releasing. Magic flickered and flashed brightly, startling the eyes, and adding to the disturbing disorientation. But as with previous times the magic began to weaken and the scene calmed; the suspended splinters and shards fell to the floor with a series of melodic thuds and chinks.

The event had lasted minutes, but the madness and chaos condensed into such a short time had them reeling with exhaustion. They stood, still hunched defensively, and watched the witch anxiously, wondering if this was the end or just the eye of the storm. After several fraught moments the witch slumped back against the mattress and her eyelids fluttered closed; the eerie screeching howl faded and the last residues of magic fizzled and sputtered about them.

"Well, we're makin' progress," Moody said with forced enthusiasm and plucking inch-long wooden splinters from his hair. "Really felt this time that that were an half-hearted attempt at killin' us." He sighed deeply and looked at the mess around him. "I'll fix the window, but I'll be buggered if I'm fixin' the blasted wardrobe again."


	16. Chapter 16

They circled each other, as wary predators would over a succulent morsel. One seemed alive with malice while the other seemed oddly detached from the terrible drama growing between them. They were mirror images, both tall and slender, both dark and pale skinned; both emanating a sense of power. They wanted the same thing: control. They had a lifetime of suffering to hone their skills and refine their want; they had no intention of surrendering or squandering their advantage. It seemed that Ophelia had the most to gain, which meant that Veronica had the most to lose.

_You cannot win against me! _Her voice was so confident and strong that her words seemed no less than prophesy. Veronica felt a flutter of panic; never had they met in such a fashion; the deeper, darker, part of her had always been a whisper in her mind, a subtle pressure on her intentions. Now, Ophelia stood before her; eager and hungry.

"I don't have to win; I just have to hold onto you."

_Hold __onto me!_ She laughed, the sound reverberating and gathering strength until it became a vibration deep within their bones.

_Y__ou wouldn't know how to, my dear; you have neither the strength nor wit. _

But she knew the truth of it; she had been held down and smothered for decades. Veronica's will and mind had kept her at bay, and not her long-lost protector's charm. Struggling and fighting had only strengthened the bonds; now she needed to be free, things were changing, things were no longer the same; she was needed in a way that Veronica could only nightmare about. Ophelia wondered if her host knew of it, sensed the world shifting; wondered if that could be the leverage that she had been denied while they had been safe and sound in the Muggle world.

"I have managed it for years", she said firmly, a soft smile curving her lips. "This disease has battered at me for decades, and I have kept it deep inside where it could do no harm."

Ophelia stopped pacing and stared blankly at the woman before her; noted the calm serenity that suffused her and the subtle strength in her stance. Ignorance and fear where her true judges and guards; Veronica had condemned her on a few tragic and disjointed memories. Could it be that Veronica had confused her for some bizarre and hateful manifestation of her own dark desires and fancies? Ophelia felt her eyes widen as the thought thundered along its track reaching the terminus in an explosion of realisation and ironic ramification. Veronica had no idea that Ophelia was disparate; had no idea that there were two distinct minds within the same brain.

_You don't know who I am, do you? __You think me an illness?_

Veronica frowned at the sudden change of tack; she saw the wide-eyed confusion and the remarkable and unexpected innocence in the other woman's dark eyes. "You would hurt and kill. You would maim and destroy; lie and cheat. That is not healthy; not right."

_All very true;__ I cannot lie to you. _The voice was small and emotionless, as if the admission had stolen the will to feel.Ophelia took a deep breath and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. _I have done things that would and should make you cringe; conspired and worked to bring about death. I set myself the task of killing a man; a traitor to all that I grown to stand for. I lied and destroyed; all the things that you deem me capable of I have done. May not have been healthy, but it was most certainly right._

Veronica's frown deepened; was that remorse flickering across Ophelia's features? Was it pain? Could she risk trusting this facet of herself, did this creature hold the answers? Was knowing worth the risk of losing herself? Of being the one held behind bars watching the horrors committed while trapped behind uncaring eyes? She swallowed nervously; would knowing change her? Would she become the woman she had spent twenty years hating and fearing?

_I had no choice_, Ophelia finally whispered, her eyes staring into memories that were locked to Veronica. _I tried_, her voice trembled, _but I didn't have the strength. And that is my sin, my shame, my sorrow. It is the constant pain that has distracted me from claiming what is mine by birthright! _Her posture suddenly shifted and she seemed more feral; her dark eyes glittering dangerously as they fixed, pinned, Veronica with a hungry, greedy glare. _Who do you think was here before? You know that there was a before;_ w_ouldn't you like to know what I know_? She asked while tapping her temple. _Know what it is that terrifies you? Why those things were needed. Know why _we_ did them_? She stepped forward until she was nose to nose with her naive and dedicated gaoler. Veronica was caught in her gaze and senseless on her words, she was unable to prevent it.

"Is there a reasonable excuse?" Veronica asked more bravely than she felt. "Can you give me an excusable reason?"

_We had t__o!_ she shouted out, breathing fast, her eyes flashing with fury_. If you let go of your selfish and stifling fears then you'd know! You'd understand! _Her face twisted in disgust as she studied Veronica. _But you will never do that, will you? Your life is comfortable and sweet and you know that mine was far from it. You are a coward! You stand there spouting ethics and morals to me; using them as a defence, as a convenient shield. Using half-truths and doubts as the backbone of your arguments! _Her voice rose in volume until she was screaming in Veronica's face; her eyes blazing and her teeth bared. As quickly as her wrath had struck it dissipated and her voice dropped to an icy whisper. _Your spine is weak! It will snap! Already you feel it quake and tremble under the strain._

"I don't want you!" Veronica snapped out, her own anger flaring, her temper breaking. "You want to do more than just defend; you take the power that I have and want to twist it, to make it hurt people rather than protect me."

_Protect!_She hissed out bitterly_. You call the meagre defences that you created a protection? Out there at this very moment are people, wizards, who will do unspeakable things to you, to us, and you will be unable to stop them. _Ophelia looked mad with fear, anger and desperation. _The demons in the hospital are nothing compared to what you're being dragged back into. Listen to me, _she pleaded, her dark eyes wide, _you need me!_

---X---

Lupin watched Sirius serenely slice through the egg and scoop out the white from the severed top. His friend had adopted this unaffected air, and had kept to himself since they had carried Ophelia into the house and placed her in the spare bedroom. He had tried to talk, but everything seemed so obvious or futile that the words had withered on his tongue. Lupin had contented himself to cook a simple breakfast before returning to his watch. Only the clatter of spoons against crockery and the sound of rain slamming into the windows filled the uncomfortable silence. Sighing softly Lupin cracked his own egg and peeled away the shell, one fractured piece at a time.

For his part, Sirius kept glancing across at his friend, with an urge to say something, the need to shatter the barrier that had fallen between them, but not knowing what could be said that would be enough. He knew that it was his own stubbornness that had caused it, he knew, had always known that Lupin was the voice of reason, the reasonable one and the conscience; without Lupin Sirius would have done far worse and suffered worse.

Several times he thought that Lupin was going to start talking and his heart had leapt at the prospect, but his friend had merely looked pained and then moved on to another task. The rain battering at the window and the wind rattling the back door only accentuated his sense of gloom, loneliness and feelings of enforced isolation. In this sombre mood he caught sight of Lupin fastidiously removing tiny pieces of shell from his boiled egg, for a moment he was fascinated by the delicate movement, and then his temper snapped.

"For Merlin's sake, Moony!"

Lupin started, his chair legs scraping against the tile floor and his spoon clattering against the plate as it fell from his fingers.

"Just slice the blasted top off!"

They stared at each other, and then just as the tension threatened to thunder down they both felt utterly ridiculous, it was so reminiscent of their school days. Sirius frustrated by a prank gone wrong and Lupin feeling awkward because he couldn't sympathise. It was Sirius's snigger that prompted a laugh to bubble up from Lupin's chest, and over shattered shells they laughed.

"So, what is she like?" Sirius asked nonchalantly as they tidied away the breakfast dishes.

Lupin sighed and dropped the plates and eggcups into the sink. "We don't really know. That potion is still affecting her," he said, his voice thick with disgust. "Three days of it," he whispered, looking nauseous and extremely exhausted. "We've had to tie her down," he said angrily, his hand trembling as he reached out to turn the tap. "Merlin knows what she's going through."

"Well," interrupted Sirius coolly. "We'll know soon enough."

Lupin felt as though he had been hit in the stomach, and he gaped for a moment at the calm man before him. A surge of fury rushed through him as his efforts, the efforts of everyone, was belittled so neatly. He bit his tongue and turned the tap with more force than was warranted. Where was the Sirius that had told him stories of a little girl, sitting on his back and laughing with glee as she clung to his fur? Where was the Sirius that had clung to him and wept on his shoulder after her death?

And that was it! He knew where the man was. He was hiding; hiding from his pain and anger, from the life that was crumbling and falling around him. He peered into the depths of Sirius' eye and saw a flicker of sorrow, or guilt, and that quenched the fire of his wrath. Lupin sighed softly and felt his heart clench; the drinking and the seeking of solitude, the smooth apathy; they were escapes. Why hadn't he seen it earlier?

"It must be rather bad though," Sirius conceded quietly. "You look like you've just gone through a transformation."

Lupin chuckled grimly; glad of the concession. "Feel like it too."

"When will it be over?" Sirius asked as he picked up a tea-towel.

"According to what we know today should be the last day, and given what she's gone through then I think that she'll sleep for a while. I know I shall," he said with a smile.

"And then we wait to find out what she is."

Lupin smiled inwardly, he knew that Sirius couldn't be that dispassionate; he had suspected that behind the façade he was as curious as everyone else. He just hoped that she would be a light in the darkness for him, just as she had been as a child.

"Moody has been trying to find out more; some evidence supports that she's a vicious devout Death Eater, and other reports indicate that she's a sensitive and caring woman. She has him baffled."

Sirius nodded thoughtfully. "You mean that since the memory loss she's different?"

Lupin laughed mirthlessly and then shrugged his shoulders. "It would be so neat to say so wouldn't it, but it isn't quite the case." He turned to look at Sirius, his face animated with wonder. "She uses magic, Sirius, and complicated magic at that. She knew that she was a witch which seems to suggest that if she did suffer a memory loss that some of it has recovered. If so, then Ophelia wasn't the evil witch we think she was; or," he continued with a sad expression, "she isn't the sensitive woman we hope she is." He looked at Sirius and studied the man's thin face, wondering whether his suspicions would force Sirius back to the unforgiving man he had been. The idea that as some of her memories returned some of her true personality had shone through; and it had been far from twisted and foul. "I think that she's both."

"I don't understand." He frowned at Lupin and rested his hip against the work top, waiting for the first dish to dry.

Lupin turned away and began to scrub at the sides of an eggcup. "I just have this feeling that she's more than what we think or remember her to be."

"A feeling?" Sirius queried softly as he dried the eggcup.

The question held none of the incredulity or ridicule that Lupin had expected, but it was amazingly interrogative. The other eggcup was subjected to a bout of intense attention as they stumbled through the conversation.

"I can't explain it well," Lupin said with a hint of frustration. "But when I saw her outside the cottage there was a sense that she was as lost as everyone else."

"Don't expect me to believe that she's another person struggling with a terrible past to be a good person;" Sirius snorted contemptuously, "I have enough trying to deal with Snivellus helping us."

Lupin placed a spotless plate on the draining board and pulled out the plug. He watched the water start to spin and then pull down into a small whirlpool as the dishwater drained. There was one other thing that was occupying much of his thoughts; that sense of recognition, a recognition that went both ways.

"I can't recall ever meeting Ophelia; I remember meeting many of the others?" His question hung in the air, as innocuous as a dusty cobweb and yet as inescapable. He watched Sirius potter around the kitchen putting the few dishes away.

"Nah!" Sirius said while tugging on a sticking drawer. "I can't see as you would have, we rarely spoke at school because of … well, just because, and she spent most her time with Narcissa and all the other Slytherins. Over the holidays she was at Malfoy's, and she wasn't with Andromeda that long." The drawer sprung open with a clatter of cutlery and a curse from Sirius. "I can't think that you would have had the opportunity to meet her. You may have seen her about the school?" He paused and stared into the drawer, his face paled, pain flickering across his features. "You would have liked her; she always reminded me of you," he smiled. "She was a remarkably stern child too."

"With you around, Padfoot, I had no choice," he countered with a smile. "I just have this feeling that we've met before, that I know her."

Sirius shrugged and tidied the drawer so that it would shut and open smoothly. "I don't know; just one of those things I guess."

Lupin inhaled slowly and tried to relegate his feeling to a mere 'one of those things', but still the sensation nagged at him. He couldn't see that a chance meeting, especially one that he couldn't recall, in the corridors of Hogwarts would have had such an impact upon him. He bit down on the rising frustration and turned his mind to another dilemma.

"Sirius," he said gently. He saw Sirius stiffen and slowly close the drawer.

"I know that voice, Remus," he replied warningly, still looking down at his hand on the drawer handle, "and the answer is no!"

Lupin felt the urge to argue, to force the issue, but he knew that of late Sirius' mood was variable and unpredictable and he was loathe to spoil this tentative moment between them.

"You're right," he conceded. "Have you heard from Harry lately?"

Sirius shook his head and sighed wearily. "Not since he used the Floo in Umbridge's office and basically told me off about tormenting Sniv… Snape," he smiled wryly at the memory of his Godson's troubled face in the flames. He sobered and shook his head sadly. "He worries me," he said quietly. "And there is nothing I can do!" He thumped the worktop, suddenly outraged. "I'm here doing nothing and he's facing it all; he's suffering that woman, Umbridge, and Voldemort crawling around inside his head, and I'm here, babysitting a Hippogriff and a Death Eater!" His voice had risen in pitch and volume.

"You need to be here Sirius."

Sirius stared at him as if it was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard. "I don't need to be here," he protested. "What I need is to be looking after him; need to get out of this hell-hole and watch over him."

The sudden desperation and frantic expression on Sirius' face distressed Lupin and he swallowed hastily. He knew that the enforced stay in this house was contributing to his bouts of dark depression, and he knew that Sirius was succumbing to other vices while within these walls. His mind worked quickly to see a way to give Sirius some focus and hope, but he knew that the only answer to Sirius' dilemma was to go to Harry and leave this mausoleum of a house.

"It'll be the end of the school year soon," Lupin said with forced brightness, but before he could expand on his ideas Minerva's amplified and harried voice filled the kitchen.


	17. Chapter 17

She was running; she seemed to think and dream of that with distressing and frustrating frequency. She could feel the jolt of each impact up through her legs, into her hips and up her spine; her whole body wracked by each stride. She was so very tired and each footfall hurt. Her arms pumped furiously by her sides as she continued to run, but she knew that she was tiring; knew that soon she would stumble and fall.

Her lungs burned with the effort, her sides felt like hot knives were slicing through to her belly, and sweat stung her eyes, blinding her. Her chest felt ready to explode and the blood rushed painfully through her throat to roar past her ears. Thud! Her foot on the ground. Thud! Her heart in her chest. Thud! Her foot striking again. Thud! Thud! Thud! Slowing down, she whimpered, she was slowing down. She tried, gritted her teeth, and summoned the last vestiges of strength. Thud! … thud! …….. thud! ………….. thud!

She stumbled and hit the ground, rolling and tumbling as momentum carried her forward. The world became a confused blur of sky and ground, of flailing limbs and tangling clothes. The wind was knocked out of her as her back struck the sturdy and unforgiving trunk of a tree. Gasping and struggling for breath she tried to see what she was running from, what terrible thing had been on her heels?

Blinking away the sweat, her eyes frantically swept the scene. Trees crowded her, standing like morbid spectators to her plight, their branches creaking overhead. Ferns and brambles filled the gaps between the hazardous tree roots, vicious things that had snagged her legs and scratched at her as she had ploughed through their ranks. Weak sunlight filtered through the bare branches, and a mist was gathering in the distance, seeping slowly towards her as it thickened into a fog. It felt as if the world was closing in on her, intent on smothering her and trapping her here with whatever hunted her.

Her ears strained for some tell-tale rustle in the undergrowth, some crack of a twig being stepped upon. All she could hear was her deep rapid gasps for air, the thumping of her heart, and the creaking branches. She moved slowly, wincing as her bruised ribs protested, crouching and creeping low through the ferns. She eased her way as quietly and as quickly as she dared through the foliage. A treacherous bubble of hysterical laughter rose up into her throat—she had no idea where to run! Where was safe? Where could she go? She no longer even knew what direction she had been running in before the fall. She battled the tears and the desire to scream. She crawled along between the tall stalks, careful not to disturb the ferns too much, figuring that any direction was better than none. She followed the land as it sloped downwards; maybe it led to water, which in turn may lead to a town of sorts. As the day dwindled and the darkness descended she crawled and slithered her way through the wood.

She kept an ear and wary eye on her surroundings, and crawled until the ferns petered out and the forest thinned. Through the younger trees with their slender trunks she saw what looked like a cave, and with some trepidation she darted towards it. She stopped on the threshold and gave her surroundings one last careful scrutiny and stepped inside. Without warning she was suddenly knee deep in ice-cold water. The cold of it snatched her breath and she instinctively scrambled to find a way out of the murky wet. Her numb fingers connected with stone and she waded closer, her hands and eyes trying to discern a way out of the water in the gloom. Scrambling and clinging she heaved herself out and onto an outcrop of rock. Where had the water come from?

Breathing hard and shivering with the cold she lay down and curled up, wrapping her arms around her shins. Her teeth chattered loudly and she shuddered violently. Why was it so cold and dark? Surely she hadn't fallen so far into the cave that the meagre daylight couldn't reach her? Exhaustion and the cold connived together and she felt the frantic energy that fear had provided ebb away. Her eyes closed.

---X---

Lupin sprinted up the stairs with Sirius close on his heels. He used his wand to open the door before him and sped through with heart hammering, eyes wide and dread heavy in his stomach. Minerva sat on the bed with her back to the door, blocking most of their view, but they could see patches of blood on the pale blue duvet and on Ophelia's arms as she lay perfectly still. Minerva was muttering frantically and her wand fired spell after spell.

"Merlin!" Sirius whispered, intense emotion thickening his voice. Lupin rushed over to the bed and moaned at the sight. Blood ran in streams from her mouth, down her throat and seeped alarmingly quickly through the bed-linen. He saw something pink and fleshy glistening on the pillow by her head, and he retched violently when he realised what it was.

"She bit through her tongue!" Minerva sobbed. "And I can't heal it!"

Sirius had walked, as if in a dream, to stand next to Lupin, and his eyes latched onto the pale face smeared with blood; how peaceful she seemed amidst the horror of it. She was as he remembered her, the features hardly changed with time. In that instant he reached a conclusion, he felt a weight lift and he serenely left the room.

Lupin was aware that Sirius had left and the hope that he had nurtured in the kitchen withered, but there was no time to mourn its quick death. He aimed his wand at the woman drowning on her own blood and cast every spell he knew to keep her alive.

---X---

Some insistent prodding at her legs brought her weary mind back, and her eyelids reluctantly opened. It took several moments for her brain to process what she saw. Grey bloated arms, reaching out of the water and fingers gripping at her clothes. With silent horror she tried to pull her legs back, but the sudden movement seemed to incense them and their grip tightened. Taking a deep breath she finally managed the scream that had been lodged in her throat. As it echoed around the cavern the water's surface looked as though it boiled, and more of the terrible bloated and grey limbs erupted from the depths.

Scratching and peeling the fingers and hands from her she struggled and thrashed, but those hands pulled her ever closer to the water. Her feet slipped past the surface and one of the things leapt out of the water and used its body to pin her legs. Screaming and twisting in earnest, sobbing and almost mindless with fear she tried to grasp at anything that she could use to pull herself away from the water and the monsters within. She was frantic as she slipped down to her waist, and she felt more things grabbing her legs. Her hands were slick with water, sweat and blood from her efforts, and she knew with horrific certainty that she was going to die.

More of the creatures were breaching the surface to leap and lie upon her. One emerged with enough force that it fell next to her so that their faces were only inches apart. With the attention to detail that only fear can encourage she took in the features. It looked fresher than the rest; the skin was less grey and turgid from the water. The hair was dark and plastered to the thing's skull, and the eyes still had a subtle hint of blue in their depths. She noted the length of the face, the cheekbones and the long nose, the slenderness of it. She knew that face! Her eyes widened at the monstrosity of it! She screamed, and even as they pulled her under the icy water she continued. _Regulus! _And Regulus embraced her, as he had many times; held her as water flooded her lungs, and as the life began to leave her twitching, shuddering, body.

---X---

He couldn't understand it! The spells were potent enough to have healed injuries much worse than this and yet she still bled. They had managed to slow the loss, but it still trickled down her throat and bubbled out from between her pale lips. Lupin glanced across at Minerva who was wide-eyed and frantic.

"We need Poppy," she hissed out.

"No," Sirius called out calmly from behind them. "You need him."

Their startled gaze flew to Sirius, and then to where he had directed with a gentle wave of his hand. In silent wonder they saw Snape, standing in the shadowed corner, his black eyes fixed on the witch now white as death. Lupin stood with mouth agape, his bemused gaze flicking between Sirius and Snape; the withered hope made an amazing resurrection. The dark man strode over to the bed and he began to sing in a whispered voice, an unfamiliar tune in an unfamiliar language. It was oddly beautiful to listen to, soothing and yet suggesting a power behind it. They stood and listened, watching the enigmatic man wave his wand over the almost dead witch. As the song carried on, certain segments repeating and increasing in tempo, they could feel some power building. The air felt heavy and charged, as if a storm was gathering. Sweat beaded on Snape's brow and his wand arm trembled slightly with the effort of the magic he was controlling. They looked on in stunned and fretfully hopeful silence. After what seemed an age Snape picked up the severed tongue and her mouth fell open at some unspoken command. Holding the slippery flesh between forefinger and thumb he slipped the tongue past her lips. His song was almost inaudible and tumbled from his trembling mouth while he passed the wand tip over her face.

Sirius' expression was unreadable in the gloom when Lupin tore his gaze away from Snape and Ophelia to look and wonder at his friend. He had an idea what it had cost Sirius to ask Snape for help and he felt a pang of shame that he had doubted his friend. He felt rather than heard the song stop and his gaze flew back to the bed; his attention riveted on Snape as the man removed a potion from his breast pocket and poured the contents down the woman's willing throat. Some of the colour returned to her cheeks and her breathing began to even out.

"Severus," Minerva said with undisguised relief.

Lupin let out his held breath in a jubilant sigh and he turned to share the moment with Sirius, but the wizard had fled the room, only the faint smell of stale alcohol lingered.

"Nothing we did stopped it," she said in a small and bewildered voice. "I thought that she was going …."

"Nothing you could have done would have stopped the bleeding completely, Professor." Snape said swiftly, as if eager to forestall any outpourings of grief or gratitude. "You did remarkably well to keep her alive."

"What went wrong?" Lupin asked gently; not wishing to suggest that he was placing blame. "So that we know for next time."

Snape glanced across at him, not quite meeting his eye. "She resisted her memories coming back."

"Wouldn't that have been expected?" asked Minerva, her voice laced with confusion. "We have been assuming that she has memories she wished to remove and forget; it's hardly surprising that she would resist."

"We have the ability to repress memories," Snape explained. "Those memories are not affected by the potion because they would have not been affected by the Obliviate Charm. I suspect that the combination of potion and resurfacing memories has triggered a response within her to recover everything, and some aspect of her is fighting the attempt."

"The Obliviate spell only affects memories that are prevalent," Lupin muttered.

"Precisely," Snape confirmed tonelessly, and the notion was creeping over Lupin that Snape was on the verge of collapse. The fatigue was showing itself in the way that his shoulders drooped, his lips were parted slightly and his eyelids appeared heavy. "She was fighting the insurgent memories, fighting them with all that she had, fighting to the death."

"Oh, my word!" Minerva said, looking horrified; aghast at the implication.

Snape nodded slowly, he seemed to sway ever so slightly, and then he summoned some strength and he straightened into that irascible tower that had the power to terrify. "I doubt that it will happen again," he said stiffly. "But I will leave some essence of dittany, in case it does," he finished as soothingly as he could. His dark eyes swept the room and he frowned. "I was under the impression that Moody would be here?"

Minerva snorted; a sign of her recovery that her temper could flare so easily. "He was called away by the Ministry; they wished to know where Albus had disappeared to, and if Alastor could shed some light." She smiled grimly. "They are quite eager to track him down."


End file.
